


Hunt Her and Pray

by Seselt



Series: Hybrid Vigour [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:04:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 64,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seselt/pseuds/Seselt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a violent fanfic. I mean it. If you have any triggers or qualms about sexual assault or violence against women, please do not read this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the Hunt Begins

A forest somewhere in northern England on a fine spring day...

 

The tranquilliser gun was an object of much dispute in her Department. Hermione Granger, formerly Weasley, loaded her weapon untroubled by the controversy. She was a Muggle-born and proud of it. The teasing of her years at Hogwarts had crystallised the belief within her that a hybrid approach was best. Of course, some hybrids just plain needed leashing, she thought as she sighted down her scope.

Hermione had joined Kingsley Shacklebolt’s newly created Department of Magically Integrated Science because of a blonde Quidditch fan. It was a long story and the firmly ex-Mrs Weasley used it to calm her mind as she watched her quarry from her camouflaged hide. Thinking about how dangerous this was just made it worse so she thought about coincidences and the fickleness of fate.

Her husband had been unfaithful. Ron had a weakness for admiration. She had forgiven him the brunette after the Championship qualifier because he had been drunk and she had not been there. He swore it was an accident, he loved only her and it would never happen again. A little voice in her head had replied ‘it won’t happen again because I’ll cut your balls off’ but she had not gelded him.

In the balance of things, Hermione slightly regretted that. Ron had not learned his lesson, defaulting to his schoolboy habit of being too pleased at having got away with something. He had also forgotten she was not stupid. It was an odd thing for him to forget considering how her brains had saved the Golden Trios’ hides several times but there it was. One had to be philosophical about such things. Hermione pulled the trigger and her rifle gave a little cough.

The dart struck her quarry on the haunch. Almost immediately his leg went numb. She watched through the scope, mentally taking notes. This was the second field test of serum 42 and it was proving very promising. It was one of a new batch of techno-thaumaturgical pharmaceuticals developed by the MIS. Hermione was pleased with the progress they were making.

The trick was to sufficiently immobilise the target without 1) death; 2) murderous rage, which was likely to result in criterion #1 or; 3) wearing off before the target could be properly restrained. Hermione had a long scar down her left thigh as a result of serum 27 doing #3 and provoking #2. That field test had been rather too full of excitement but it had yielded two useful results. Firstly they isolated the reactive compound in the serum and secondly she got her rifle.

Previously they had to use blowguns, which aside from prompting a lot of off-colour jokes, had not been particularly efficient. They had tried magical means of targeting and launching but the serums were, in less than scientific terms, tetchy. The intricate binding enchantments that held the chemical compounds together degraded quickly if exposed to incautious wand-work. Hence the camouflaged hide and the distressingly pungent ointment that Neville assured her would keep her scent from being detected by her quarry.

After the Minister for Magic had appointed her Lead Researcher, Hermione had immediately gone to her old school friend. Herbology was seen as a soft subject next to Potions and DADA but she had wanted to decrease her Department’s reliance on minor magic so they could focus on cutting edge thaumaturgy. Hermione smiled as she recalled Neville’s reaction. He had dragged her into his workshop and talked non-stop for three hours about what he could do if given the proper support.

Two Muggle-born wizards who had fled England during Voldemort’s purges had been coaxed back with the promise their work would redress the balance. Neville had his lab assistants, which got Hermione and her colleagues their alchemical tricks. It was simply unfortunate that the scent-masker smelled of things normally found in rotting quietly in the bottom of ditches.

A stink rather like it had wafted from Ron’s lie about the blonde. Shortly before their third wedding anniversary she had come home early from work to see a young woman leaving their terrace house. After the brunette she had been suspicious, Hermione freely admitted to herself, but she had tried to give Ron the benefit of the doubt. He’d been in the shower when she had reached their bedroom. There had been a pair of knickers, in Cannons’ orange, left amongst the dishevelled bed sheets.

Her dear husband had emerged looking pleased with himself to tell her with the fluency of the desperate that the undergarment in question was a gift for her. That had gone down like a lead balloon as her mother would say. She had hexed him out the front door, still in his towel, warding the house against him. Ron had eventually walked to Harry’s to explain the situation and beg for the loan of some trousers only to discover Hermione had used the cunning invention of the telephone to inform their friend and his sister what had happened.

At rather more volume than she had intended, Hermione reflected ruefully. She had cried for a couple of days because she had wanted the romantic dream of living happily ever after with her school sweetheart. But eventually she had pulled herself together and gone into London to start divorce proceedings. Kingsley had noticed her trudging along a Ministry hallway as he left a meeting. They had got to chatting.

A new and challenging job was just the thing for a fresh start. Hermione had accepted the position with alacrity. She approached her still twitching quarry with more caution. Unlike some of the adventurous youngsters in her department, Ms Granger had no gung-ho desire for more scars. As she neared, she noted that the creature she’d shot was subject J12, designated Scruffy by the Northumbrian team. Weaning pure-bloods onto scientific methodology was an ongoing process. Shouldering her rifle, Hermione surveyed Scruffy for injuries. He was underfed and had an infected wound on his shoulder, possibly the bite that had turned him.

“If you lie still, it will be over quicker.” She remarked to the growling werewolf. Predictably, he struggled. They always did. But serum 42 packed enough punch to floor an elephant. 

Hermione knew that for a fact after they had tested it at London Zoo. One of the base components had been a standard animal tranquilliser and she had been interested to see how much the magical modifications had changed it from the base stock. All of the fourth series worked very well on mundane animals though one of the zoo-keepers had been left woozy after inhaling some of the vapour.

Hermione locked the shackles and muzzle around her quarry then called her support team. They were about a mile off, ready to rescue her should things go pear-shaped. Ideally, there would be a team in the hide but hunting werewolves took a lot of cunning. They spooked easily and having a lot of people trampling around warned them off. Scotia Team had tried tracking from the air but with mixed results as well as costing the MIS a broomstick after one of them had flown into a tree.

Recklessness was a weakness in the Department. Young witches and wizards thought themselves impervious to harm. After Cattermole had been hospitalised and Yates killed, Hermione had read everyone the riot act. They would behave in a professional, scientific and sensible manner or they would be filing requisition forms for the term of their working life. That had curtailed the worst of the risk-taking but also reinforced her reputation as a harsh taskmistress. She did not mind. Hermione had attended too many funerals already to wish to repeat the experience.

Her support team, wearing hunter’s vests and carrying identification from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, arrived in a dark green Landrover. They looked like perfectly ordinary people. Their wands like Hermione’s were concealed up their sleeves. Blending in with the local Muggle population was important so much so they actually did work for DEFRA albeit as conservation volunteers.

“Scruffy looks like he could do with a good feed.” Patrick Ryan jokingly observed as he and Euphemia Lynch wrapped the werewolf in a blanket before carrying him to the back of the Landrover. He was a recent Hogwarts graduate therefore thrilled to be this close to one of the most dangerous creatures the MIS studied. Patrick’s jest earned him cold looks from the veterans of the team. They did not consider the dietary habits of lycanthropes a laughing matter.

“We’ve got an unconfirmed report from that sheep-farmer near Haltbrooke again.” Basingly, whose first name was a closely guarded secret, handed Hermione a scroll. She had tried hard to introduce laptops but only a very few people in the MIS were willing to brave such terrifying devices. Considering there had to be a Use of the Telephone seminar organised before everyone could work one, she was not surprised. One day, Hermione told herself as she read the neat quill-script, she would get everyone on PDAs.

And one day, she would have the luxury of belabouring Ralph Hutchins, the most annoying man in the north of England, with one of his own sheep. Bad luck for the sheep but nothing else would divert the bore. He gave Muggles a bad name with his long-winded sermons on Why Everything Was Better in My Day and Young People Nowadays Have No Respect. Hermione once had made the mistake of pointing out she was closer to thirty than twenty and had suffered a lecture on Women Who Should Be at Home With Their Children Not Running About the Countryside Talking Back to Their Elders.

“It might be something this time.” Hermione noted the loss of a prize ram, killed in a more gruesome manner than usually attributable to a fox or wolf. Ralph Hutchins had called their contact at DEFRA several times, usually just to complain about subsidies, but over the last few weeks he had sworn something big was killing his sheep. He called it a Gytrash, a black dog of folklore. Opinion amongst the team was divided on whether it was truly just a dog.

“We’ve had no other reports.” Basingly pointed out, not anxious to deal with that farmer. “But his farm is isolated so it is possible an outcast or newly turned werewolf could be responsible.” He was a diligent researcher as well as a skilled wizard but he directed a beseeching look at Hermione. She tucked the scroll into a thigh pocket in her fatigues and took pity on him.

“I’ll talk to Hutchins.” It would be an ordeal but for the good of the project, she would do it. They were closer than anyone had ever been to finding a cure for lycanthropy. They just needed more test subjects. If putting up with an opinionated, chauvinist prick was the price for that breakthrough then Hermione would willingly pay it.

The team piled into the Landrover, Basingly and Hermione in the front, Ryan and Lynch in the back with Scruffy. They headed up a side road then with map consultations found the turn off for Haltbrooke. After Voldemort’s defeat, the werewolf packs had scattered. The MIS teams were obliged to check with the Aurors every time they captured a werewolf in case there was an arrest warrant pending. So far, they had not caught any of the big names and Hermione preferred it that way.

Hutchins’s farm was a nice old place in stark contrast with its owner, who came out of his house with a cup of tea and a scowl. Hermione suppressed a groan. This was not going to be quick or painless. It was getting dark too.

“Look, this could take hours. Head back to base and I’ll call you when I need a lift.” She got out and reminded herself she had endured Severus Snape’s vitriol, Death Eaters and Molly Weasley’s ire. Mrs Weasley was a nice woman right up until you hurt one of her children. Hermione still remembered the pitiful Easter egg she had got during that Skeeter nonsense. In the fights between her and Ron, Molly had sided doggedly with her son. Compared to that, one pompous sheep-worrier would be a push over.


	2. Notes in the Moonlight

It was full night by the time Ralph Hutchins finished his diatribe. They were still in his yard, the only light from a single bulb in the kitchen window. Presently that clicked off when the farmer stormed back into his house leaving Hermione in the moonlight. It was not romantic. She pulled her phone out and sent a text message to her team, being frugal by habit. Then she made her way to the gate to sit on the low stone wall.

The earbashing had got her several promising leads. The ram’s carcass had been in such a state that a man from the Ministry, Agricultural not Magical, had taken it away for inspection. Hutchins was not the only one who had reported livestock losses. Hermione knew that. The MIS tracked a lot of reports and sometimes rarely it was a werewolf. But it was also a lot of paperwork. She rubbed her thigh. The wound ached when her leg got cold. A stone wall was not the most comfortable perch.

The ram had been killed in Hutchins’ furthest field. He had given her vague directions to it but there was no chance in Hell Hermione was going to trek there to have a look without back-up. She pulled the scroll and a flashlight out to make notes while her memory was still fresh. Very little meat was missing from the carcass, which suggested it had been killed for amusement, which in turn suggested a dog attack. A lone werewolf would be hungry.

She was sitting alone in the dark. The thought occurred to Hermione quite suddenly as the flashlight flickered. She had not noticed how black it was away from streetlights. Looking up as she tapped the torch automatically against the wall to joggle it back into working order, she noted clouds had obscured the gibbous moon. Hunting lycanthropes, you paid a lot of attention to the phases of the moon. It was waxing.

The flashlight was standard issue strictly for the look of it. She did not have any spare batteries. Hermione edged her wand out of her sleeve as her ears found sounds to alarm her. Night birds, insects and the low howl of the wind seemed ominous. It would not take her team long to pick her up. She kept that thought firmly in her mind. Her hand tightened on her wand.

“Lumos.” She said quietly. Hermione turned off the flashlight but kept it in her lap in case Mr Hutchins charged out to warn her off his property. Returning to her notes, she considered the significance of the farm itself. It was old. They had done some surveying to locate any possible magically concealed bolt-holes in the general area but reconciling ordinance maps with MoM charts was a huge task. It did not help that GPS went odd in intensely magical places.

There could be a network of caves. The local geography boasted a fair few, many with interesting hominid fossils. That would account for the difficulty they were having confirming werewolf activity. Hermione added a note to contact any spelunking clubs in the area in case they had noticed anything. Suspiciously new ‘fossils’ would be an obvious clue. She chuckled to herself then stopped abruptly as she heard someone approaching from the direction of the farmhouse.

Hermione turned around quickly. It was not Hutchins. She saw that much in the instant before the dark figure leapt for her. She got her wand up fast but her spell ended in a rush of breath as the werewolf slammed into her and she landed hard on the ground beneath him.

All the wind had been knocked out of her but she did not have time to gasp. She had to fight! Hermione brought her knee up as hard as she could and rolled out from under him before he had a chance to recover. She staggered upright, dropping a shoulder to slide her rifle free. Pain blossomed in her back as she moved. Must have cracked a rib or badly bruised something when she landed. It took her breath away anew.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Hermione wheezed, lashing out with a curse. It was dark but she could see the werewolf was huge, black furred with lighter hackles. He dodged the body-bind with a low growl that was almost a laugh. Her eyes went wide as she recognised that vicious chuckle. 

Fenrir Greyback, it had to be, though she almost did not believe it. She thought the Ministry still had him. They had been very hush-hush about it, repeatedly denying MIS requests for samples from their captives.

“I remember you.” He bared his fangs as he stalked around her, eyes glinting like balefire. “Never did get that taste of you.” 

Hermione showed her teeth in an answering sneer but saved her breath for magic. There would be no taking him alive. She could not chance anything as he was far too virulent. The witch sucked in air despite the pain, edging away as he tried to herd her against the wall. He would leap at her soon. She could see him tensing. He was toying with her. Well, damn him! No quarter.

“Avada Kedavra!” Hermione hissed just as the big werewolf, the nightmare of a generation of wizarding children, threw himself at her. There was a flash of green light and a red bloom of pain...


	3. Rite of Spring

Hermione woke to aches and chill. She was thankful she woke at all. Opening her eyes expecting to see grass or starry sky, instead there were flagstones. She blinked, realising with awful clarity that she was naked. Her mouth went dry. It was just possible this was some sick joke. Lifting her head, Hermione found herself in a barn or an outbuilding. The walls were stone but she did not think she was in a cellar as there was a gabled roof.

A cascade of freezing water splashed over her making her shudder then grimace from the pain. Just a bruise on her back, she thought as the worst of the hurt ebbed. Hermione pushed herself off the floor ready to confront whoever had doused her. She got as far as her elbows and knees. Someone had tied her wrists and ankles to bolts set in the floor, with what looked like the rags of her clothes. This must be a barn; the bolts were there to secure livestock. She had once seen a mean-tempered cow milked with all four legs bound.

That memory brought with it a horrible sick feeling. Hermione had a very good imagination. She peered into the dark. She could see shapes and shadows but it was still night. Maybe this was Hutchins’s idea of a lesson. She could almost bear the thought of that. If he so much as touched her she would make him regret existence but that was preferable to the alternative.

A low, growling chuckle accompanied the noise of a wooden bucket being dropped. Hermione jerked her head in the direction of the noise. It was not Hutchins. The shape was bipedal but the farmer was a short man and as it neared she could pick out details. Dark fur, thick muscle, pale lines of scar tissue where no fur grew and a flash of teeth.

Fenrir Greyback padded around his prize in half-man form. He’d needed thumbs to bind her and fetch the water to clean the smell off her. That ointment had fooled him until he got within sight of her at the farm. She’d smelled of nature not human. But once he’d seen her, he’d known her shape. Bellatrix had promised her to him. Bellatrix was dead but he had the female now.

“I thought about killing you.” Fenrir said, absently scratching his shoulder where her curse had clipped him. He had been lucky. If he hadn’t tipped her over the wall when he leapt she would have hit him dead on. But he had and she hadn’t and now she was the one tied up like she had been doing for those pathetic humans he’d bitten. It had been amusing to hunt the hunters. Even more fun now he had one. This one.

“You should have. I am going to kill you.” Hermione spoke through her teeth to keep them from chattering. She was shaking with cold. Even her burning anger could not warm her. Fenrir laughed, moving behind her. She tensed expecting any moment for him to bite her. 

They were close to a cure but not close enough. Professor Lupin had managed. Would it be so bad? It would be just one more incentive to complete this project. Hermione screwed her eyes shut and told herself she would get out of this.

He licked her. 

She jerked, twisting away as far as she could. Fenrir simply moved and ran his tongue up along her other thigh to the curve of her buttocks. Hermione kicked out at him but the bindings were too short. All she managed to do was knock her knee against the stone floor. She hissed a curse as he rubbed himself against her. This was not happening!

“It’s been a long time since I had a mate.” Fenrir said conversationally because he liked the smell of fear and words were good for that. With the masking scent gone, she smelled of female and the apple shampoo she used for her hair. It was pleasant. He was getting hard. He licked her sex, making her shudder and lash out at him again. She hit this time, her heel against his elbow but she was weaker than him and he was good with knots.

“Bugger off, you sick bastard!” Hermione shouted, jerking her arms. It was only cloth, it would give way. But he’d twisted it tight. Her hands and feet were going numb. Tied too long like this the tissue would be starved of blood and begin to die. It was a measure of the grimness of the situation, she thought as she yanked against her bonds, that I am using the prospect of gangrene to distract myself.

“Bugger? No.” Fenrir laughed deep. He had just been going to kill her until he realised she was female. It had been difficult to tell. The bushy hair he remembered was cut short in a bob. Her clothes were like those the country people wore. He had thought she was the farmer before he had got closer. He licked her sex again, tasting her. He couldn’t smell any male on her. It had been a while since she had mated. And he thought she was in season.

Hermione froze as Fenrir mounted her like a bitch. She could feel his penis rubbing against her labia and she had to bite down on an urge to vomit. He pushed into her slowly, stretching her, pausing to adjust his position as though he had all the time in the world to rape her. He drew his tongue across her back, over the hot bruise making her flinch. That let him slide all the way in, which he liked. She had good hips and could take all of him.

“This is good.” Fenrir laughed as he stroked a little. Her body reacted and made her a little more receptive for him. That was why he hadn’t mounted roughly. He could have. He could take her any way he wanted but it would hurt her more to like it. “You are so clever, witch.” He braced his legs to support his weight so he could use his hands on her. “Do you know what night it is?”

“March 20th.” Hermione answered sharply. Should she struggle? She did not want to participate in this in any way. He was too heavy to buck off. Could she squeeze him out? Probably not and trying would just please him. Lying down and taking it meant she would have no control at all. She would not, could not do that.

“The vernal equinox.” He corrected, stroking some more.

“That’s tomorrow!” 

The witch snapped back at him and tried to tear herself free. She was stubborn. He liked that too. He didn’t want to mate with someone who was weak and cried and begged. That sort of prey deserved killing.

“Only on the calendar, bitch.” Fenrir reached forward to cup her breasts. They filled his hands. Good for suckling. He grinned, scraping his teeth against her back but not breaking the skin. He wasn’t going to turn her. No, he had other plans. “I can scent it. I can feel it. The rite of spring is tonight.” He was sure as only an animal could be. “And I have a ripe mate under me to give me cubs.”

Hermione choked. Not that. She was not on the Pill. After Ron she’d rather gone off men. Besides, the wizarding divorce laws were heavily slanted towards blame. She had not wanted to muddy the waters by getting involved with someone before the matter was officially resolved. Having a werewolf’s baby was certainly not in her best interests if she wanted a generous alimony settlement, she thought almost hysterically. She had to get out of here! Fast!

“Malfoy said you’d taken the orange haired one as your mate.” Fenrir slid his hands down to her sex to tease her. He knew how to please a female. He wanted to get this one howling. His fingers found the little bud in her folds and rubbed it. “Why didn’t you give him cubs, bitch? Wasn’t his seed strong enough?” The werewolf laughed, pulling out of her so he could rub his length between her legs. “I’ll give you a round belly, don’t worry!”

She and Ron had agreed to wait on having children until they were more financially secure, Hermione replied haughtily in her head as she lowered it. Not in submission but her get her teeth into the bindings around her right wrist. Thanks to her parents, she had excellent teeth. It was too like an animal but she would gnaw through her restraints if she had to. They had agreed though suddenly after the blonde it had been she who said it and Ron who had been disappointed but had gone along with it.

He had not had the common decency to mention it to her. Assuming he had changed his mind and was not talking out of his ass to hurt her now she had rejected him. She should have kicked him out as soon as she found out about the girl after the Championship but she had felt guilty because she had been working late. To make them more secure, so they could start a family and not have to worry about every knut like his parents. But no, now it was all her fault.

“Malfoy?” Hermione asked sharply, Fenrir’s words penetrating her anger even as he thrust into her again. He was bigger than Ron and she did not ever want to think about that and she would not ever think about it again. She would think about something else. Anything else. “When did you talk to Malfoy?”

“Not long ago.” Fenrir kneaded her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers to make them hard. The little bitch couldn’t help herself. It was natural and she had not had a male in too long. She was getting hot around him so he stroked harder. He heard her grunt. Maybe she was liking it or maybe she was thinking about Malfoy. He grinned. He would get her mad and see how well she mated then. “I told him I had you and he said I should have you often. It is all you’re good for, he said.”

Hermione’s fists clenched. She noted clinically that her fingernails were cyanosed and no matter how hard she tensed there was still numbness. She had to get the bindings off or she would not be able to fight. Concentrate on the restraints. Focus. You can do it. Then you kill him, take a morning-after pill, kill Malfoy and think no more about this.

Fenrir saw her lower her head again. He heard her chewing on the cloth. Let her. He nudged her legs apart and pushed deep so his balls touched her and she could feel his potence. Her sex was slick. He flicked a claw across her bud, feeling her flesh clench around him. Yes, that was good. The werewolf began to mate in earnest, gripping her waist with one hand and playing with her with the other. Oh she was ripe for him.

She was ignoring him. 

He was not there. 

This was not happening. 

All she had to concentrate on was biting through cotton fibres. That was all. There were no shivery tingles from her clitoris. There was no pleasure from a hard male inside her. She was not getting hot as he scratched lightly over her most sensitive place. What lubrication there was kept him from tearing her.

It could be worse.

The resolute optimism that had buoyed her during the hunt for the Horcuxes and the worst of the Second War returned now. She had always mistrusted it as irrational and faintly pathetic. Like Luna and her cryptozoology. But Hermione had to admit that right now a glass half full was better than a glass shattered.

“I like your teats, bitch.” Fenrir moved a hand from the curve of her waist to the curve of her breast, groping her as he shoved himself hard into her. “I’m going to make you suckle our litter.” He gave her another squeeze before putting both hands between her legs. The werewolf humped his mate, teasing her with his fingers. “I am going to make you give me cubs like a bitch should.” Her flesh shivered against him. “Feel that, witch? Feel that? You want me to mate you.”

”No.” Hermione shook her head firmly. “NO!”

But the friction was relentless. He was doing it deliberately, she realised, and tried to relax. But that only let him stroke deeper. He was so thick she could feel the contours of his glans rubbing against her inner walls. It felt... No! Hermione stared at the flagstones. Not moving, trying not to breathe, not to be there as her body responded.

This is not me. It is just a biological reaction. I do not want this. I will not listen to him. He is not there. This is just stimulus. 

I said no.

 

No.

No.

No.

Fenrir growled deep in his throat, feeling his blood pound as his balls clenched. Now he was rough. Now he took her like a bitch needed to be taken. Thrusting hard in and out so she could feel all of his maleness, so after he burst inside her she would howl and take his seed. He slammed his hips against her over and over, working himself to a frenzy knowing her body could not resist his.

It was so good to have a mate again. He felt his shaft jerk and he shoved as deep as he could so she would feel his seed. Fenrir Greyback howled as he peaked inside the witch he had captured, spurting again and again. And Hermione Granger, eyes tight shut, felt him ejaculate against her throbbing flesh and hated as she never had before.

 

The werewolf jerked inside her a few times then pulled out. Hermione took in a slow, deep breath. If he rolled over and went to sleep like Ron she would not be able to stop laughing. She felt the hysteria bubbling up in her. 

She was not coping with this as well as she should. Wasn’t there a place you could go in your head not to think about things? Couldn’t she just pretend this was a bad dream? But no, she had to be the rational one and recall it would take approximately a fortnight before successful implantation and therefore pregnancy.

There were charms to prevent that but they only worked in the first few days. Ditto, for morning-after pills. So now she had a deadline. Her periods were quite regular and she was in the fertile part of her cycle, the bastard had been right about that. She was going to kill him then skin him for a throw rug. Or maybe a doormat. Yes, that would be good. She could wipe her boots on him every time she left for work.

Her team would know she was missing by now. They would search the farm. Poor Basingly would have to talk to Hutchins, who would be little help she was sure. The scroll had been in her lap when the effing lycanthrope jumped her. Hermione doubted a werewolf would bother picking up a parchment. So her team would have her notes about bolt-holes. That was good. They would do a sweep. They would come for her. Even if she could not get loose, it would be alright.

It would take time though. There were a lot of places to search. They could trace her wand. The Department of Magically Integrated Sciences had residue charms for all their field agents. No one was going to do a Bagshot and disappear.

What if he had killed Hutchins? It would not matter. That was not a nice thought but her team were professionals. They would report it to the Aurors and there would be a cover story. Her disappearance would work well for that. Some rural madman running amok. 

And there would be no bloody stupid nonsense about her being responsible for it. Harry had suffered so much moronic drivel from the Daily Prophet that Kingsley had introduced libel laws into the wizarding world. If anyone so much as hinted she had gone mad out of despair after being dumped by her pure-blood husband, Hermione would sue them back to the Dark Ages. 

She had heard that offensive bit of gossip from a colleague who had been talking to someone who worked with a Weasley. Ron had been putting about his version of events. How he’d sought comfort in the arms of another witch because she was a cold-hearted, ambitious Mudblood.

Hermione gnawed at the cloth bindings. Alright, so she had not heard him or anyone else use the racist epithet but it had been there. Even after Voldemort, even in their golden new world of cooperation and understanding, the thought was still there. That Ron had fooled round because she was somehow inadequate. Because of her Muggle blood.

No one would say it was because he was emotionally immature with the self-esteem of a griddylow and the libido of a satyr. She had seen that herself. All she had to do to get him to agree to anything was get down on her knees to give him a hummer. He would have bought a Timeshare in the Everglades or let her parents move in with them. But she had not done that. It had not been right or fair. So yet again Hermione took the moral high road and copped it. She bit angrily at her restraints.

She would get out of this and show everyone that you did not mess with Hermione Jean Granger. Or if you did, you staggered away with your testicles in a paper bag.

For his part, Fenrir stood up and stretched. That had been quite good. He scratched his balls idly as he padded to where he had kept the things he had taken from her. He noticed wizards hunting werewolves but not like in the old days for sport. Now they had guns like the country Muggles. Greyback had wondered about that until he had sniffed at the darts she had been carrying. They smelled odd but a little familiar, like stunning curses.

He picked one up carefully now and took it back with him to where his bitch crouched with her hindquarters lifted. If she got away, she wouldn’t take his seed. No cubs. He did not like that. So he stabbed the sharp end of the dart into the roundness of her buttocks. She yelped, kicking out at him but her legs went weak and she flopped onto the flagstones. Fenrir laughed as he watched her thrash.

“If you lie still, it will be over quicker.” He growled into her ear and licked her face. Hermione threw herself forward to head-butt him then dizziness swirled around her as everything went fuzzy. She thought she felt herself hit the floor but by then she had passed out.


	4. Rude Awakenings

She woke on a mattress feeling hung-over. Hermione moved her tongue in her mouth, grimacing at the nasty taste and rubbed her face. For some reason this surprised her and she stared at her hands. She waggled her fingers, noticing without understanding the red abrasions around her wrists. They looked like friction burns. It was so odd that she frowned. Ron and she had tried a few things to spice up their love-life but nothing so wild that it left marks.

Hermione rolled onto her side, blinking at a flat stone wall. Her nice terrace house had pale blue walls downstairs, except for the study which was green, and wallpaper upstairs. Was she in the basement? Why would she be in the basement? She rolled over again and looked at the other wall. It was stone too. Stone, not concrete like her basement. It seemed very tall. Stretching down a hand, she realised the walls looked tall because the mattress she was lying on was on the floor. A floor with square cut flagstones.

Her heart thudded. She remembered those flagstones. Her head felt stuffed with wool but she was suddenly very alarmed. Wool. Sheep. Sheep farmers. Hutchins. Hermione started to hyperventilate as her sluggish mind wound up to speed. Hutchins’ farm. Werewolf. Fenrir Greyback!

She sat up quickly and nearly choked herself as the collar around her neck brought her up short. Hermione turned around, yanking wildly on the leash that tied her to a metal loop in the wall. The leash was not leather. It was some kind of brightly coloured rope. She stared at it fiercely. It was lime green with red and yellow checks, almost a houndstooth pattern. Who would buy such a garish thing?

Climbers. The word insinuated itself into her thick head. It was climbing rope. Hermione pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. Why was that significant? Bloody hell, it was like she was stoned!

She was drugged. 

Hermione rubbed her backside and the little sore spot where that fucking asshole had jabbed her with the dart. They were contact release, only a little pressure needed. All the field agents had to be very careful with them. And he had stuck her with one. A doormat was too good for him. 

Hermione thumped her fists on the mattress in sheer impotent rage. If it was climbing rope, she was not going to break it. The high tensile material was specifically designed not to snap. Damn it! She punched the mattress again then grimaced when her hand came away damp. Why damp?

Already revolted, she looked closely at her hand. There was a pale residue on it. She had touched a wet patch. Taking a deep breath, Hermione touched herself between her legs. Gorge rose in her throat as her fingers found stickiness.

She frantically wiped her hand on the mattress, instinctively moving away from the spot until her back was against the cold wall. The serum would have had her out for hours. The usual range was six to ten depending on bodyweight. And that was for werewolves. The zookeeper who had breathed in some of the vapour when he had pulled the dart out of the elephant had been woozy for nearly thirty minutes on a trace amount.

That disgusting creature had raped her again. 

Hermione could not help it. She leant over the side of the mattress and was violently ill. All that came up was bile but she retched and retched until she was sobbing uncontrollably with nothing left to bring up. There was a pitcher of water next to the mattress, next to a matching chamberpot with a pattern of daisies. Grabbing the pitcher, she gulped down several mouthfuls to get rid of the taste. Her stomach revolted but she kept drinking to flush the serum from her system.

Pouring a little of the water on her hands so she could clean herself, Hermione noticed there was a faint blue tinge to the liquid. Oh shit. She started breathing fast again, her throat tightening as she gasped for air. He had broken open one of the darts and put the serum in the water. How had he known to do that?

She dropped the pitcher to put her fingers in her mouth, down her throat remembering her first aid training, trying to make herself throw up. It had seemed so easy a moment ago!

But her Department had worked hard to get a serum that was very fast acting. Against a werewolf in full bloodlust seconds mattered. Serum 42 was volatile, made to disperse into the bloodstream quickly. She had just filled her empty stomach with it. Hermione choked trying to gag herself but already the room was spinning. Before she blacked out, her last coherent thought was to knock over the pitcher and spill the water. One less dose.


	5. Baited Trap

She woke almost mad with need to pee. Hermione staggered to her feet, saw a toilet and sat down on it with relief. The seat was icy against her skin; old porcelain not plastic but it did not matter. She sighed as the fierce cramping in her abdomen eased. The flush toilet was truly a wonderful invention.

But hadn't there been a chamberpot last time? Hermione looked around her with grave suspicion. It was indeed a different room. It looked like a bathroom circa 1950. There were dirty pink tiles everywhere. She had been lying on a blanket in the shower stall, which had an edging of brown and cream sea creatures though several of the starfish tiles were missing.

Little things told her the house this bathroom was in had not been abandoned. Firstly, there was toilet paper. The holder was cracked and had been repaired with masking tape but the small blessing was there. There was soap by the sink too. Hermione washed her hands thoroughly after she flushed. Hot water eventually arrived from the tap, which prompted her to drag the blanket out of the shower stall.

She soaped and scrubbed herself with an old flannel that smelled of damp but she did not care. Half way through getting herself really, really clean Hermione had a flash of alarm and jumped out of the shower to lock the bathroom door. She was now safe. Returning to the hot water, she took slow, deep breaths until her panic eased. 

Examining her wrists, the worst of the redness had faded as the abrasions healed. More time had passed. Fenrir was moving them around to avoid capture. Hermione thought about the owners of the bathroom and her jaw tightened. Maybe they were away. She prayed, truly prayed, that the people who lived here were enjoying a nice holiday somewhere.

The hot water ran out before she got out of the shower. Hermione rinsed herself off then dried herself on the blanket because there were no towels. She hunted around in the vanity, found toothpaste and a toothbrush that looked reasonably new then scrubbed her teeth. It was a soothing activity and took away the morning after taste in her mouth. Drinking her fill from the tap, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror.

Hermione Granger looked back. Her new salon haircut, which had been quite expensive, was ragged but there were no bruises. No redness around her neck though she remembered the rope collar bitterly. Nothing in her eyes showed her thoughts, which turned now to escape. Further investigation of the bathroom got her a pair of lethal looking metal scissors and a glass bottle of orange liquid that smelled like bleach.

It was time to leave. Hermione wrapped herself in the blanket then cautiously opened the door. She looked out into a narrow hallway with old floral patterned carpet. Someone had painstakingly rag-rolled the walls a pleasant combination of white and cream, which lightened the hall without being too harsh. The owners of the house did not have the money to renovate the bathroom but they had done their best where they could.

Hermione imagined them as a young couple with their first home rather like her and Ron. Please let them be away she thought as she slid past a closed door. Please let them not be dead behind that door, lying in pools of their own blood like others she had seen. She paused at a second door that was ajar. There was a noise. Her hands clenched around her improvised weapons. A wand would be so useful right now. The noise continued. A child cried.

She had to look.

She could not leave without looking. Hermione knew too much about Fenrir’s habits to abandon a child to his mercy. Peeking around the door she saw a cot, one of those convertible wooden ones that expanded as the baby grew, with a little shape inside. Instinct told her to be cautious. She pushed the door open all the way. No one was hiding behind it. Putting down the glass bottle, Hermione edged her hand around the door to turn on the light.

The soft glow from the frosted ceiling fixture illuminated a nursery. There were cartoon lambs on the walls. A toddler in a pink romper suit cried pathetically in the cot. Hermione hurried to the little one, carefully picking her up without putting down the scissors. The sensible thing would be to come back for her. Her chances of escaping without notice with a small child were not good. But she could not do that, not with that werewolf in the house. Settling the baby on her hip she turned to leave.

“You’ll make a good mother.” Fenrir showed his teeth at her in a grin, looming in the doorway. 

He was fully human, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His pepper and salt hair was short, growing out from the buzz cut he would have got in Ministry custody. He could not have escaped that long ago judging from his stubbly chin. All these irrelevant thoughts rushed through her head as Hermione weighed her options.

“You will forgive me if I do not take that as a compliment.” She said in her most careful voice. Baiting a werewolf was not a tactical move. Neither was charging him. Glancing aside, she saw the window had a security grille. It looked new. How she wished she had her wand but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. 

Fenrir laughed, a deep throaty rumble that even in human form sounded bestial. He stalked closer, dark eyes narrowed and wary. He was a hunter and she was cornered prey, that was what he was thinking, Hermione thought. She tensely waited until he was halfway between her and the door. Any closer and he could grab. Tightening her grip on the baby, she threw the scissors hard at the werewolf and ran.

He would flinch, she was certain. The flash of steel flying towards him would look like silver and he would instinctively shy away from it. Hermione did not waste a second in looking. She bolted past him, down the hall and down the stairs. The front door was right there. Slowing only to grab the knob, she twisted. The door did not budge. She turned the knob sharply the other way before realisation that it was locked caught up with her.

Hermione turned, saw the lycanthrope at the top of the stairs and dashed into the dining room. She kicked her shin on a fallen chair but kept going through to the kitchen. There were two doors to her left that she ignored; her goal was the backdoor into the garden. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him open one of those other doors. Her hand closed around the knob just as he cannoned into them.

Fenrir tackled his bitch not to stop her, because he had locked all the outside doors, but show her his dominance. Hermione went sprawling across the tiles and he grabbed the infant. The Muggle child was good bait for a Muggle-born witch. 

“You run and I bite this little one.” He showed his teeth to her. “You know me, smart bitch. You know I will.” The hate in her eyes pleased him. If he had not been holding the infant she would have attacked him. Even now she was looking for weapons.

“What do you want in exchange for her?” Hermione negotiated, thinking fast. There were three rooms downstairs not counting the front hall. Two doors out, both locked. But no washing machine. The last door left to her was possibly a pantry but there could be a laundry through there and another way out. Once she had the little girl, she would head for that door. At worst she could barricade herself inside. 

“You.” Fenrir rubbed himself significantly, discarding the towel. “Our cubs. Not this soft one.” He dangled the tiny Muggle by an arm. She cried and the witch started for her before he made a warning noise in the back of his throat. “No, bitch, you want her, you have to agree. I want a litter from your belly. My litter for this pink thing.”

She could not trust him. Not an inch. But this was not about a bargain. Hermione decided grimly what she had to do. This was about buying time. Sooner or later, the Department or the Aurors would find them. She just had to keep herself and the child alive until then. There was no question of calling the werewolf’s bluff. He was not bluffing and she had fought too hard against those who would sacrifice Muggles to do the same. So Hermione untucked the blanket and spread her legs for Fenrir Greyback.


	6. a Personal Question

Fenrir did not immediately leap on her, slightly to her surprise. He crossed the kitchen to the pantry and set the little girl down inside in a half-full laundry basket. 

Before the werewolf closed the door, Hermione noted there was a louvred window above the sink. She knew how easy the glass panes were to remove. Her grandmother had once accidentally locked them out of her house and she had climbed in through the bathroom window after pulling several panes free. They might get out quietly that way. And if not, she planned to check all the windows because he had to sleep sometime and she would much rather rescue herself.

The werewolf walked back to where she sat and stood there staring at her for a while as he stroked himself. Hermione made herself not look away. He was showing off. She let her eyes move over him, noting the absence of the Dark Mark. Did it gall him he had been denied it? Perhaps not. Her impression had always been he was an opportunist, allying himself with Voldemort for the perks rather than the ideology. He hated all wizards not just Muggle-borns.

He knelt between her legs and leant forward, running his tongue over her stomach. That broke her composure and made her shudder in revulsion. Fenrir chuckled and kept licking her until he had worked his way up to her breasts. He looked her in the eyes then, catching her gaze before he took one of her nipples into his mouth to play with it. Hermione tensed again but this time to keep from making a noise.

He laughed, making her breast quiver, and she wanted so much to hit him she had to clench her hands in the blanket to keep from pummelling him. Later, she promised herself. When she was in a position to ensure he hurt no one else, she would kill him quickly. Not because he deserved mercy, he did not, but because triumph was best with the deed complete. None of that cartoon villain gloating while the hero got away. Fenrir Greyback was going to die efficiently.

“How many men have you had, smart witch?” He asked, lifting his head to admire his handiwork. Her nipple was dark pink and stiff, pleasant to look at and all for him. Fenrir turned his attention to the other one, knowing by her scent that his bitch was aroused. He knew the answer to his question too. She’d only ever mated with the ginger wizard. But he wanted her angry not just lying there letting him take her. He’d had her like that several times already.

Hermione did not answer him. It had always been her and Ron, and Harry and Ginny, at least as far as Ginny was concerned. The Golden Trio with Ron’s little sister thrown in to keep it from getting kinky. There were a couple of guys at work who looked promising but she had wanted to find herself before she jumped into bed with Mr Rebound. To be herself alone, not the third of a triplet. However, she was not going to tell the werewolf any of that because she was not having him. He was taking her and had no right to anything.

Unfortunately, he was not hurting her. This would be easier to bear if he hit her. That was a foolish thing to think as Hermione had no desire to be beaten. But if he used violence then there was no question of coercion. No argument, no grey area, no lawyer’s words like those that had got the Slytherins off their collective hooks.

Now she was awake, Fenrir wanted her lively not gritting her teeth. So the werewolf nuzzled her breasts until her breath quickened. Then he sat up and lifted her hips, squeezing her buttocks as he pushed into her. She was warm for him. He slid his hands down her legs to move them over his so she was wide and welcoming. Leaning over her with his hands on either side of her shoulders, he smiled down at her.

“Guess how many times I have had you?”

Hermione punched him in the stomach with everything she could muster. It was like hitting teak but he still jerked back and she punched him again, this time in the face. She split his lip. His blood dripped down onto her bare breasts. Fenrir grabbed her left wrist then after a brief scuffle and another punch to the jaw, secured the right, pinning her to the floor. He immediately began to thrust vigorously inside her, excited by her fury.

“You bastard!” Hermione shrieked and tried to kick him but she could not twist enough to get the correct angle with his weight on top of her. She jabbed her heels into his calves and pitched herself forward to crack him a good’un with her forehead. Fenrir dodged aside, far more familiar with unarmed combat than she. He rocked his hips to rub the sweet places inside her and make her pant like she was in heat.

“You want to hit me?” He goaded her, the damage she had done already mending. He was not a young man any more but he was far from feeble and he’d take a dozen bruises if it meant seeing the fire in her eyes. “Or you want to hit your ginger?” Fenrir had demanded Malfoy tell him what had happened while he was locked away. Lucius loved the sound of his own voice and had talked and talked but he had added that bit of news out of spite. “He took another mate, did not he? A real witch. Not like you.”

Fenrir had murdered men with his bare hands and revelled in it. He had been a werewolf for a long time, living with bloodlust every day. So when Hermione’s face contorted with killing rage he recognised it. Tightening his grip on her wrists, he held her down with his full strength as she thrashed under him. The witch writhed and lashed out at him furiously while he mated with her.

Hermione scratched him and pinched and would have bitten if he had come within range of her teeth. He grunted once or twice but she thought that was from pleasure not pain and she grew more furious. How dare he not hurt! How dare he think he could hurt her and not be hurt back! How dare he hurt her and lie to her! How dare Ron betray her!

He stopped when she started to cry. Her fingernails still dug bloody runnels into his hands but now sobs not fury shook her. Her face screwed up with tears but she did not look away from him. His bitch was not crying because of anything he had done to her. That made him angry. If anyone broke her, Fenrir wanted it to be him.

Hermione had been angry for so long that suddenly loosing it had left her empty. The sorrow she had not allowed herself to feel since kicking Ron out flowed into the void left by her rage. She was so fucking tired of soldiering on, being the reliable one. Being a good daughter, studying hard, fighting a war, helping with the wounded because there were so many, then all the funerals, going back to Hogwarts to graduate, working hard, getting married, working harder...

Fenrir snarled and finished his rut. The witch lay here when he pulled out, staring at the ceiling. She did not smell like surrender. She was weak now like you were weak after a long, wearying hunt. He had slept for weeks in the kennel where the Ministry had locked him. Slept and ate their bland food and let himself rest. That is what she needed to do now. He would use that and the Muggle child to keep her with him until she got so heavy with his cubs she could not rid herself of them.

Then he’d kill the brat and leave his bitch to whelp while he hunted.

Hermione stood without looking at him. Like a sleepwalker, she went to the pantry and took the little girl upstairs to change her. Once she removed the romper suit she could tell this was not a handy-wipe job so Hermione put both of them under a lukewarm shower. Always a bookworm, she had read up on childcare after her marriage to prepare herself mentally for what she had thought inevitable; more Weasleys.

She found a towel in the toddler’s room, drying first her then herself. It was a pink towel with a kitten appliquéd on one corner. Hermione noticed little things as she found talcum powder, a diaper and clean clothes for her new charge. Someone had made a collage of baby pictures with the name Elinor Grace and a date in careful calligraphy. The little girl was just over a year old and this room had been refurbished for her, down to a laminate floor rather than the dated carpet.

There was a baby’s bottle under the cot. Hermione cleaned it with a wipe from the enormous box on the change-table; clearly Elinor’s parents understood the reality of childrearing. The bottle was more than half full of water so she tucked it in with the little girl. A familiar routine and a woman’s voice settled her, her eyes were closing as Hermione tiptoed out of the room. She shut the door softly then looked at the other one.

It was still closed. What did she expect? Hermione did not want to open the door. It was an irrational fear. She had seen worse. Assuming there was anything in there. But there was not another room. It was dark outside, the baby had been left for several hours. She had not seen any blood downstairs though she had not been into the left hand room. A fallen chair in the dining room suggested someone had been in there when Fenrir attacked. Logical thought convinced Hermione it was unlikely anyone had been killed in the master bedroom. And even if they had, she had to find out.

She opened the door like there was a Grim behind it. No, he was downstairs, she thought bitterly. That made her push the door wide and face what lay beyond. What lay beyond was a mess but an ordinary, cluttered bedroom. Second-hand furniture, scattered clothes and a stack of moving boxes in the corner told Hermione that Elinor’s parents had taken a break in their home improvements. She let her breath out. Wherever they were, it was not here.

Feeling like a thief, she rummaged through the clothes to find something that would fit. Elinor’s mother preferred thongs and Hermione just could not bring herself to borrow someone else’s underwear. She checked the tag of a blouse, decided the buttons would not take the strain then automatically found a coat-hanger. She had the wardrobe open before she realised it. You are in the bedroom of a couple who are almost certainly dead and you are putting away their laundry...

Hermione sat down on the bed and stared at her hands for a while. 

It was all too much but the same pragmatism that had prompted her to send her parents to Australia got her back on her feet. She tidied the bedroom; sorting, folding and hanging by rote. No thought. No thought right now was good.

In the process she found a blue sundress left over from Elinor’s mother’s pregnancy that she slid on with a little envy for the naturally slim. Had their situations been reversed, Elinor’s mother probably would not have been contemplating liberating a pair of Hermione’s husband’s trousers to clothe herself.

The smiling dark haired woman in the wedding picture she found under a pile of work shirts liked soft colours and florals. Her husband, stocky and grinning, worked in a suit somewhere and supported the Welsh National Football team judging from the jerseys in his side of the wardrobe. Neither of them looked older than twenty. There were other photos of them amongst the clutter, including one in the hospital with a newborn and an older couple almost eclipsed by a huge teddy bear. That bear was in the nursery next door.

There was too much of them in the room for Hermione to stand it any longer. She ran out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Tears misted in her eyes for two people she did not know, with whom she had little in common and who would have lasted less than a minute against a werewolf. Who had attacked them because he thought their home was a convenient place to hide.

She was exhausted. There was no denying it. Being unconscious was not the same as sleeping. Hermione found a blanket in the linen cupboard then dragged it and herself downstairs. She was not going to sleep in the master bedroom. That just was not going to happen. There would be something in the sitting room. Hermione found it was an IKEA sofa bed, she had one herself in her spare room, and unfolded it to take refuge in sleep.


	7. Stalking Prey

It was early morning when Hermione woke. She stumbled upstairs, went to the bathroom and checked on Elinor, who was still asleep. Hermione decided to follow her example. Returning to the sofa bed, she made a mental note to chart the metabolisation rate of serum 42 because she was feeling particularly dull and sluggish this morning. She should be smashing a window and running down the lane away from sodding Fenrir not pulling a blanket over her head.

Where was the bloody werewolf? She sat up again. If he was out, this was an unrivalled opportunity. However miserable she felt, she could not mope around if he was gone. Hermione checked the ground floor then peeked out the kitchen window. The rain veiled garden beyond was mostly hedge with a broken gate just visible behind the shed, and Fenrir pissing in the carefully planted hydrangeas. Marking his god damned territory, no doubt.

Her hand reached instinctively for the knife block but he would just laugh those off. There might be silverware in the dining room. If it was sterling, she could sharpen it. Surveying the kitchen, Hermione noticed details she had missed last night. There was a phone torn out of the wall and a broken plate near the sink, which was stacked with dirty dishes. Elinor’s parents had been tidying up from dinner when Fenrir came in through the gate.

Hermione visualised it. One had been at the sink, the other in the dining room. Surprise at seeing a creature of myth for he would have attacked in hybrid form. A dropped plate. A scream of warning for the other? But there was no blood in the kitchen and they would have died here if that had been the scenario. No, Fenrir came through the gate naked. Surprise and a cry of alarm, yes, but they would have both gone out to find whether he needed help or shooing off.

They were in the shed. She was certain. He would have fed on them but one werewolf could not eat two adults in a sitting. So he had stored them for later. Then he dragged her inside to the room with the toilet so she would not soil herself. Finding the house keys would have let him lock the doors. There would be a spare set somewhere even if she could not take the ones he had from him. Pulling the phone out of the wall was an obvious precaution but depending on the damage, she might be able to fix it.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned her back on the garden to investigate the fridge. She was hungry and Elinor would be too. Fenrir would be making his own arrangements. Her stomach clenched but she found a loaf of bread and put two slices in the toaster. The way she was feeling, she wanted to start cautiously in refilling her stomach. And not think about the shed.

As she was looking for clean cutlery, the werewolf padded inside. He shook himself like a dog then slammed the door shut with his elbow. Licking teeth, he went to his bitch and with an arm across her back bent her over the counter. The cold rain had got his blood pumping. Fenrir snarled as his body twisted and warped. Fur sprouted, muzzle lengthened and the urge that had been distracting a moment before pounded now. He forced himself inside her.

She was not ready for him and she bit back a cry of pain. He shoved her down until she was bent double with her feet off the floor. That was the problem with short bitches. On ground it was fine but standing was awkward. The counter was just the right height. Fenrir squeezed her backside, digging in his claws to make her flinch.

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione demanded as she tried to get some leverage to ease her position. Her toes scrabbled against the laminate cupboards before catching a handle and pulling out a drawer. She perched on that, lessening the strain on her hips. Why he was doing this was obvious. Just like in the yard, he wanted to assert his dominance over his property.

“Got no pack, bitch.” Fenrir growled. He pulled out and shoved back in. His bitch yelped this time, exactly what he wanted. “Got no cubs.” The Phoenix wizards had hounded them hard. He’d seen more werewolves die or be dragged away after Voldemort fell then he’d made in all his years of hunting. They had been strong. Now they were weak. Now witches hunted them with Muggle weapons as though they were not worth a wand. “Got nothing.”

He snarled the last words, mating her roughly until she cried out again. Fenrir pulled out of his bitch. There was no blood so he had not damaged her. He stepped back, letting her pull her dress down and turn around. Her hands shook and her eyes were lowered but her stance was not cowed. She did not look at him so he did not see the challenge in her gaze. But it was there. Less than there had been? He stared at her. No, not less. Just hiding.

Fenrir traced a claw down her throat. He could open her neck with one blow. Her pulse quickened with fear. He scratched down to the top of the dress leaving red lines on her skin. Slashing across, the material tore baring her breasts now with his mark livid on them. “You can not hide from me, bitch.”

For no reason she could name, Hermione thought of Dolores Umbridge at that moment. The pink-clad Nazi certainly would not have used his words and her attitude to half-breeds made her a very unlikely ally of any werewolf. But the undercurrent of menace, the unspoken suggestion that everything you did was flawed, that you were a thing to be stepped over, all that contempt she had heard in Umbridge’s voice Hermione heard again from Fenrir.

She had been going to snap back something witty or more likely half-witty and goading but she hesitated. One of her regrets in her fifth year was not sticking to her guns. She had wanted to protest Umbridge’s direction of Hogwarts and her frankly fascist methods. Hermione still got angry at thought of that awful quill. But she had not protested. She had listened to Harry, who in the light of maturity had been more sulking than strategising. 

Both Umbridge and Fenrir Greyback were bullies. When threatened, bullies attacked. In her fifth year, she should have stood her ground. Instead they skulked and scored little victories when they would have been better off collectively shouting from the rooftops. Even if at that age, it would have been more writing to their parents than their MPs. This time, when she wanted to scream herself hoarse, instead she folded her hands and spoke docilely.

“Do you wish to continue this somewhere else?” There was no push in her tone, no protest. Even a mild ‘are you finished’ to the werewolf might be interpreted as a sneer. Of course, he was a sociopath without empathy or conscience. He did not need a reason to kill, he just needed an excuse. And ‘she looked at me funny’ would serve him well enough.

Fenrir’s lips curled as he scented the air. This house was full of stink as all Muggle buildings were but he could smell her. Smell his scent on her. She should be aroused that he deigned to mount her. He was alpha, the strongest, the most vicious, the best hunter. If she were a werewolf, she’d hold her tail aside for him. A low growl started in the back of his throat. If she were a werewolf, she’d be dead or in a cell somewhere begging for treats.

The toast popped up. At the sudden noise, Fenrir lashed out. The toaster went flying across the small room and smashed against the wall. Upstairs, the bang startled Elinor awake and the toddler’s frightened cries caught the werewolf’s attention. His ears pricked up. The low growl grew louder. Hermione froze. The werewolf was not far from frenzy. She could almost feel the rage radiating from him.

Do something! The thought reverberated in her head in one of those attenuated moments that had been so familiar during the War. Time slowed, everything shone clear, cutting into her memory. There were moments like this Hermione would give her left hand to forget but they remained in her mind like crystal.

She sank to her knees and licked the head of his penis. That startled him. He raised his arm to strike her and she shied away dropping her gaze to the floor. Fenrir lowered his arm. His bitch was willing to submit. Showing him she was willing. Not jabbering like a monkey.

There was a pause but he was not much for thinking. Fenrir grabbed her head and pulled her towards him. The witch took her cue, taking him into her mouth to please him. This was a human act for all he was half-wolf. His tongue lolled. Her hands were on him. He did not tense. Her teeth were blunt and if she wounded him, he’d kill her.

“Make yourself wet.” Fenrir ordered. He wanted her but if he hurt her too much she’d be no good for whelping. Hermione obeyed, telling herself this was a damage control measure and when this was all over she would bathe for days. Watching her hand busy between her legs made him pant. She could fake nothing. He smelled she was receptive.

Pushing her off him before he spilled his seed and she saved herself a mating, Fenrir gestured to the sitting room. It was a stupid name for a chamber but the bed she had chosen was there. His bitch stood, going where he directed. Upstairs, Elinor’s cries had quietened but Hermione still heard them. She paused at the bedside, waiting for him.

Fenrir went to the toaster to pick up a piece of the burnt bread. He went to his bitch, gave her the food and waited while she ate it. She chewed hungrily. He did not touch her until she had finished then he pulled her down onto her bed. Pushing the blanket aside so she could not hide from him, he licked her sex until her folds were pink and ready.

This was more difficult than she had expected. Hermione stared at the ceiling. She thought about the taste of the toast. It had been slightly overcooked and her mouth was dry. A bit of jam would have improved it but she had not noticed any in the fridge. Perhaps it was in the pantry. Or perhaps they were simply out of jam. Such things happened though in her experience there was always a semi-fossilised jar of preserve somewhere in a kitchen.

The room was getting hot. Yes, dear, Hermione said to herself. It is the room getting hot. Not her. It was not her blushing rosy. Not thinking about it was not working. A werewolf’s tongue was large and rough. He could curl it into places where it felt good... She dragged her mind sharply away from that thought.

Once she had got over the essentially unsanitary nature of copulation, she had liked the idea of oral sex. It seemed much more companionable than the usual act. One of her fondest ‘bedroom’ memories of her relationship with Ron was loafing in front of the TV one Sunday morning before they were married.

They had gone down on each other, her first then him, just pulling their pyjama bottoms down and bonding. She had felt very close to him as they cuddled afterwards watching a rerun of Dr Who. Science fiction fascinated Ron, a legacy from Arthur without doubt. She had been happy then. Hermione sighed then groaned aloud as her body reacted to Fenrir. Would she ever be able to enjoy this act again without thinking of him?

At her noise, he looked up. Their eyes met then Fenrir pointedly rolled onto his back. A jerk of his hips conveyed what he wanted. Hermione hesitated. She could do this, she told herself. Women did all the time. Rationalise it as coerced prostitution. Remember Andrea Dworkin and forgive yourself, Hermione thought and made herself straddle the werewolf.

He was hot, and very hard. She noticed unwillingly also that she found him easier to take than before. Yet another thing she did not wish to know. Hermione loved learning but as she grew older she accrued information she could happily do without. Right at this moment, she would like not to know the average litter for a wolf was six cubs and werewolves closely followed their lupine side in their procreational habits.

His behaviour had led her to believe he was serious about breeding with her. Werewolves were canny and often cruel. Fenrir himself was a poster boy for brutality. However, mind games did not appeal to them. They liked to get their hands bloody. If all he had wanted was to sate his lust then he would have killed her already. In all likelihood, her team would have found her body at Hutchins’s farm. 

It had not escaped her notice that he had brought her food in a ritual gesture. He thought of this as mating. That was the only hold she had over him. Who was it who said ‘diplomacy was the art of saying nice doggy until you found a big stick’? Hermione could not immediately recall the source but the quote was so apt. Except she would not need a big stick, just a wand.

Rolling her hips to settle more comfortably on him got her an appreciative sound almost like a woof. Her nerve nearly deserted her. She was pleasing him. How could she bear it? His hands smoothed up her thighs but he did not thrust into her. Clearly she was to do all the work.

Hermione pulled her dress off over her head. His eyes were on her breasts, on the marks he had made. She felt him stiffen inside her. That made her angry. It also gave her an idea. Make lemonade as the saying went. So she raked her nails down his chest and tightened her thighs against his. He responded with a grunt but did not retaliate.

She leant forward a little to find an angle that suited her then she rode him. As briskly as she could manage, Hermione bounced herself up and down. Her hands kneaded her breasts. She would need to find some disinfectant for those scratches she reminded herself as she flaunted. He was panting now, his hands clenching around her waist to hold her against him.

“You mocked my choice of mate.” Hermione spoke in a low voice mimicking his growl. Psychological warfare, asshole. I am the smartest witch of my generation and you are a dog with an attitude problem. What she said aloud was a little more circumspect. “Malfoy did not tell you that I rejected my husband because he was weak.” And he was, poor Ron. At the heart of it, he craved attention but did not have the sense to realise what he truly needed would not come from other people. Fenrir needed to learn that lesson too. “Show me you’re stronger and I’ll give you all the cubs you want.”


	8. Manipulative Bitch

That did it. She had pushed all the right buttons. Fenrir flipped her over and immediately started thrusting wildly. Hermione brought her legs up, bracing her feet on his shoulders to ease the depth he could penetrate. He barked at her but she allayed his suspicion that she was trying to push him off by playing with her clitoris.

God, she felt him swell when he saw her touch herself. Hermione wanted nothing more than to shove him away, to run as far and as fast as she could. To Crucio him until he pleaded like his victims. She would show him what was Unforgivable. But instead, she urged him on. She rubbed her belly like she yearned to feel their babies and made all the noises he wanted to hear.

Her shame was she had faked before. Sometimes with Ron it had been easier to play along and show more than she was really feeling. Hermione tried to lose herself in the moment, to push aside her revulsion at what she had to do. Other than her own two hands, she had been chaste since she left Ron. She had thrown herself into her work as was her habit when unhappy. She was paying for that now with pent up desire. Her body wanted release. That much she could accept. 

What Hermione found difficult to reconcile was how easily she found that release with a lycanthrope. There was no affection, no tenderness, nothing she had been taught to expect from a sexual partner. They were fucking like animals and she orgasmed when he flicked his tongue across her breasts. Just like that. Flick, scream. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

She had to get out of here. Not because she feared she would grow to love him. That was farce best left in romantic novels. He was the Enemy and she was going to kill him. What Hermione feared was becoming acclimatised to this. Stockholm syndrome, marriage proposals to serial killers, wives staying with abusive husbands, she knew about those and other, darker recesses of the human psyche. It could happen. The mind found a way for the body to survive.

But it would not happen to her, Hermione promised herself as she dug her nails into his shoulders. Do not think of him as a person. Do not acknowledge him. You know what he is; a disease vector. Screwing him is just strategy. You are in control. She repeated the mantras in a chant as she arched against him. Any pleasure you feel is just another part of the lie. Be Mata Hari and win the war.

Fenrir howled as his bitch moaned. She was so receptive it was all he could do not to bite her. But the change taxed the flesh. If he turned her she would not be fit for breeding for months. Longer if she resisted, and this one would. The werewolves who bred best were those who were born from a werewolf not made. Particularly the bitches, who had to carry their litters through nine moons of changing. Packs grew more from biting than mating.

He pushed deep to savour the feel of her slickness. Wizards had destroyed his legacy. A witch would help him remake it. He’d bite her after she whelped then keep her as alpha’s mate. His bitch was a Mudblood so she’d breed easier than a pure-blood. Dirty blood but thick. Strong. Yes. Stubborn, yes. But he’d keep her belly full. He’d have a pack again. And wizards would fear again.

Fenrir threw his head back to bay at a moon he could not see but could always feel. He poured his seed into his bitch, pumping hard until he had nothing left, filling her with proof of his fitness as a mate. He made her shriek after he came. A good noise. A very good noise. He’d make her make that noise a lot.

The werewolf panted in her ear as he caught his breath. Hermione found herself winded too. She was sweaty and sticky. Extremely sticky, which was probably the most mortifying sensation she had experienced including the time Malfoy had hexed her teeth in fourth year. She needed a tactical way of getting out from under him to have a shower but he spared her having to find an excuse by rolling off and flopping onto his back.

“I’m going to feed the baby.” Hermione said lightly after choosing her words carefully and waiting for his breathing to slow. Timing was important. Lycanthrope or not, he was male and had been pushing himself hard in the past few days. She had made an effort to wear him out. He did no more than grunt though she could feel his eyes on her as she left the room.

Elinor was fussing and unhappy when Hermione lifted her out of the cot. They had another brief shower together. The little girl trying to catch the water droplets made her laugh, sustaining her through a visit to the master bedroom. She had left a pile of baby’s clothes there and she quickly dressed Elinor warmly. Her own choice of clothes was similarly speedy but deliberate.

She was sore enough that she had to wear knickers, whatever her scruples. Hermione borrowed a pair of Elinor’s father’s boxers and his smallest pair of jeans. Tight on the hips, loose on the waist but she fixed that with a belt. One of Elinor’s mother’s singlets just managed to fit. She would have picked a t-shirt but Fenrir wanted to see the marks he’d made on her. That would provide her with reasonable cover even if the singlet did not.

Two football jerseys, one inside the other, got tied around her waist. Hermione planned to wear one and use the other as a sling to carry Elinor. She wanted a hand free when she had to run. Lastly, a pair of light cotton socks then ballet flats then a pair of thick fleecy socks to disguise the fact she was wearing shoes. A felt tipped laundry pen, twenty pounds from under a paperweight and a couple of handkerchiefs filled her pockets.

There were all sorts of other things she would like to take but if she looked like she was going to run, Fenrir would get violent. If she was lucky, he was asleep. If not, her plan was to feed Elinor and surreptitiously remove the louvres in the pantry window under the guise of making lunch. A half-hour head start, that was what she needed, if the house was as isolated as it seemed. Rolling fields and copses of trees, one laneway and a barn were all she could see from the windows.

Hermione hastily checked under the bed. She had tidied the room but had not found any wallets or keys. No computers either. Unless Elinor’s parents were Luddites or had been carrying their gadgets on them, there had to be some fragment of technology in the house. She found a lot of dust, a folded up exercise machine, half a dozen odd socks and a small silver oblong that proved to be a mobile phone and not the marital aid she had feared.

It had one red bar for charge and no bars for reception. That was not surprising. Her team carried phones but telecommunications had yet to blanket Cumbria. Strong magical auras interfered with electronic devices. Some wizards said magic and technology were incompatible but they were incorrect. With proper shielding, as Hermione had demonstrated, the two could function quite well together.

Hermione tried to call Basingly just in case. She got no response so she quickly composed a text message then stored it in memory. As soon as she got the hint of reception, she would send the message. With the felt tip pen, she wrote the same message on Elinor’s bed sheet then partially covered it with the blanket. Not obvious but a policeman would notice, she hoped.

The phone told her it was Saturday. It was quite possible no one would notice Elinor’s parents missing until Monday and not become alarmed until several days after that. Hermione turned the mobile to mute then turned it off to conserve its charge. Picking up the little girl, she walked quietly downstairs. Quiet, not stealthy. Werewolves had an instinct for sneaky. Centuries of being hunted had made them paranoid.

Fenrir was snoring. Hermione nearly cheered. She slipped into the kitchen and glanced at the backdoor. He had been outside then returned inside. He had not had the keys on him, she would have noticed. She doubted he would have hidden them anywhere uncomfortable. Crossing her fingers, the witch tried the straightforward option of just opening the door. The knob turned. Her heart thudded. 

If he suddenly roused, she was just getting fresh carrots from the veggie patch. It was a feeble lie but she would make it work. The door opened without a creak. Hermione glanced back. Fenrir was just visible though the open door into the sitting room. Still snoring. She stepped outside, walked slowly towards the gate for as long as her nerve held then bolted.

She was free!

Hermione disdained cutting across country. She headed down the lane as fast as her legs would carry her. Lycanthropes hunted by scent and she doubted Fenrir would nap long. All she needed was her luck to hold until she got to a police station. She did not want to bring a slavering werewolf’s wrath down on a village bobby but she had no choice.

She was wheezing by the time she got to an intersection. A sign ‘Morgan’s Cottage’ pointed back the way she came but there was no sign for the road. She had no idea where she was. Hermione scrawled her name on the sign as she paused to catch her breath. Elinor was getting very heavy. Setting down the little girl for a moment, she wrestled with the jerseys. Putting both on then pulling one off seemed the fastest way. She knotted the sleeves, looped it across her shoulders and tucked Elinor into the improvised carrier.

Then she set off again at a jog. Hermione had thought herself fit enough. She had been doing a lot of fieldwork but she had never been much of an athlete and running with a toddler was not light exercise. What she would not do for a broom. She was not an aficionado of flying but right now she’d take any besom gifted her. And listen to a lecture from Ron about its latest hot features.

She had visited the Lake District with her parents when she was nine and she had been working out of Carlisle for almost a year. Yet her best strategy to get somewhere safe was to alternate turning left and right at intersections, Hermione chided herself. Her fond memories of the Beatrix Potter Gallery were less than useful at the moment. 

The first hopeful sign was a gate across the lane. That meant there had to be someone nearby, relatively speaking. Leave a gate as you find it, a long ago tourist guide had advised so as surreal as it was, Hermione paused to shut the game behind her. She checked the mobile phone while she took deep breaths to ease the white, empty feeling in her lungs. No reception! She swore. This was the bloody twenty-first century. What did she have to do? Make smoke signals?

Then she heard the howl. There was no other sound quite like it. Depending on the weather conditions, a wolf’s howl could be heard from up to ten miles away. Although there were no longer any mundane wolves native to the British Isles, Hermione had read up on them to better understand werewolves. Lycanthropes were instinctual creatures and drew heavily on their animal side. And right now that werewolf was telling everyone within hearing he was royally pissed off.

She ran even though she knew she could not outrun him. There had to be something more than picturesque stands of trees and fields of sheep. Where was the Royal Mail, a phone box or a damn milkman when you needed one?

The lane ended in a T-junction. Hermione turned left only to catch something out of the corner of her eye. Parked on the grass beside the lane was a white van with the distinctive blue and red piper logo of British Telecom. Oh the irony, she smirked grimly as she hurried over. She had to spend a few precious moments getting her breath back before she could shout.

No helpful telecommunications technicians made their appearance. Hermione circled around the van and discovered its bonnet was raised. There was a lot of oil on the ground. She shouted again frantic for assistance but the only answer she got was a wolf’s howl.

Hermione found a rock and smashed the driver’s window. She had no idea how to hotwire an engine nor the time to learn now. In hasty block letters, she wrote ‘Elinor from Morgan’s Cottage’ on the little girl’s cheek then tucked her and the mobile phone under the dashboard on the passenger’s side. There was a newspaper on the seat, the thick Saturday paper. Shaking it loose she covered her then ran.

She shouted a few more times, trying to sound increasingly panicky. It was not difficult. Hermione kept hold of the rock. This was going to get bloody. Another howl far too close. Fenrir was toying with her. Discarding shouting to use her wind for running, she splashed through puddles from the morning rain wanting him to follow her. Chase her, do not look at the van. Ignore the van.

A stitch in her side took more of her breath away. Hermione rounded a corner, slid on a drift of wet leaves and went sprawling. She scrabbled for the rock, staggered to her feet and started off again at a fast trot. Blisters from her borrowed shoes were starting to make themselves felt. Her fingers clenched around the rock.

He burst through a hedge ahead of her. There was no mistaking him for a big dog. His namesake grey hackles bristled as he stalked towards her growling. Saliva dripped from his jaws and rage burned in his eyes.

“Hedgerows are Protected, you bastard!” Hermione screamed at him. It was a stupid thing to say but she was beyond caring. Charging him was not terribly bright either but she got her shoulder down like a rugby player only to have him meet her charge. The impact knocked her backwards onto the road. They were nose to nose when she smashed the rock against his head and rolled away.

Fenrir caught her leg, jerking her off her feet. Hermione smacked her chin on the road biting her lip painfully. She spat blood and twisted as he dragged her onto the verge. Kicking him, she threw the rock in his face then grabbed two fistfuls of his fur. He wanted a fight? She’d give him one!

Hermione punched and scratched and seized onto hazel branches while Fenrir dragged her through the hedge, no doubt so he could enjoy his meal uninterrupted by traffic. The fuzzy socks did not help but she got a solid heel blow to his muzzle, forcing him to let go of her leg. He snarled and someone behind her spoke.

“Stupefy.”


	9. Unenlightened

Hermione woke from her nightmare abruptly, heart pounding from adrenalin. Disjointed flashes of memory scudded through her head. Rousing in a barn with her hands tied as Fenrir mounted her in wolf form. The alien wrong feeling of a canine phallus and the horrendous violation of being stuck to him, plugged full as he ejaculated over and over. Crying out around a gag as someone laughed...

That was not right. 

Hermione lay still. The room was dark. It had an antiseptic smell like a hospital. She let a long, slow breath out then took a long, slow breath in. It was all over. She was in St Mungo’s recovering. Someone had found her. Closing her eyes, she tried to relax. Everything was alright.

Wasn't it?

Doubt trickled in. Straining her ears, she could not hear any of the quiet sounds of a ward. No nurses doing their rounds, no patients grumbling or visitors talking in low voices. There were none of the little noises of bustle happening outside her room that should have been there. And why would St Mungo’s smell of antiseptic? Cleansing charms left a faint scent of the caster’s choice. Lavender was very popular. Chemical disinfectant was not.

She could be in a Muggle hospital. But again, there should be noise. And why was her room so dark? Hermione sat up cautiously. The blanket fell away. No sheets. She was naked too. And sore. Holding her composure tightly, she reached out her hands. On her left, she touched a wall. It was cold and smooth. Tiled. Was she in another bloody bathroom?

Investigating with her hands, Hermione determined she was lying on a camp cot. Swivelling around to put her legs over the side her feet touched an icy floor. More tiles. Well, they were easy to clean. A kitchen? A morgue? An abattoir? It had to be something mundane because of the antiseptic. She sniffed. It was an old smell, ingrained into the grout.

Hermione sat there staring into the darkness remembering. When she had first woken in the barn she had not been gagged. Bound, yes, but not gagged. And Fenrir had not been in wolf form. She crossed her wrists together echoing their position in the dream and a little more of the memory solidified. Her hands had been tied together. Tied with rope, not the rags of her clothes like the first time.

Sitting very still, she thought hard. More recollections surfaced though they made little sense. Cold wind against her skin with her legs swinging free. Lying awake but unable to see, listening to voices she could only half hear. Fenrir between her legs with her on her knees and on her stomach and on her back and bent over a chair. The chair had a leather seat. She was sweating and her skin stuck to the leather.

She shivered. Hermione smoothed her hands down her arms. She could not feel any damage though she could do with a depilatory charm. That spell lasted a month to six weeks depending on her hormonal cycle. Her forearms were quite furry. For a horrible, terrifying moment she wondered if the werewolf had bitten her. Frantic, she ran her hands over herself searching for a bite mark. Lycanthropic wounds scarred badly. You only had to look at Bill Weasley to see that.

No scars. Hermione found she could breathe again and let out a long sigh. The relief was palpable. Upon further level-headed investigation, she decided such growths of hair as she had upon her person were entirely normal for an adult female human and if she was going to panic she should do so over something significant. Such as the fact time had passed.

It was surprisingly difficult for her to tell how long. Chunks of her memory were just not there as though she had been sleeping for days at a time. More likely she had been Stupefied. Repeated use of that curse caused disorientation and minor amnesia. Nothing as distinctively delineated as an Obliviate where the recollection was excised away, but rather an absence of mind. Hermione noticed her feet were aching with the chill from the floor and drew herself into a tight little ball.

Her stomach was bigger. She stretched out again in almost a convulsive movement. Hermione shook herself mentally. Be rational. She lay there for a long time before she could bring herself to survey her belly. Her quick scar investigation had not brought anything to her attention. There was not anything blatant, not yet. But she carried her excess weight on her hips not her abdomen so the slight roundness was either from a large dinner or the early stages of pregnancy.

Hermione just lay there staring at the darkness. Pregnant. Beginning to show, which was the big red flag issue. Depending on the woman, you had a bump by about twenty weeks. She had read that and queried her mother only to be informed she had shown earlier because she was short. Hermione added that to her equations. Not tall equalled earlier bulging. Twenty weeks for a single embryo.

The word ‘litter’ kept percolating to the top of her mind. Although the Weasleys’ fecundity was more likely due to Molly than Arthur, Hermione had done a little research on twins in case she and Ron were similarly blessed. She had not wanted to inflict another Fred and George on the world. The more babies, the earlier pregnancy was obvious; almost in quadratic progression.

So. Her thought stopped there. So. Again rational thought just fell over. She was lying in the dark pregnant. That thought did not help a great deal. Hermione pulled the blanket up, curled into the fetal position and cried.

No one intruded on her misery. Hermione eventually cried herself out and lay wretchedly sniffling. She was in deep trouble now. It was not being pregnant or rather it was not only being pregnant. She was an adult. She could make the difficult choices. What troubled her was the other person. Fenrir had not Stupefied her. He had not been the one laughing in her hazy memory. So there was someone else, some who delighted in her pain.

She was not quite twenty-six and had more enemies than she could conveniently name. Most were in Azkaban or had buried themselves so deeply even the Unspeakables could not dig them up. Malfoy, senior or junior, was the most obvious choice as the werewolf had mentioned him. That was not evidence she would like to take to a Tribunal but she could believe it. A bit convenient though.

Hermione closed her eyes to thwart more tears. She had not anticipated this. Once Fenrir had dragged her through the hedge she had expected to die. Her only option had seemed to be going down fighting. Given the werewolf’s notorious hatred of wizards the last thing she had expected was a curse. 

What was the chance they had found Elinor? Fifty/fifty? She had no idea. The feeling of the breeze she remembered could have been flying on a broom. That was always chancy in daylight hours near Muggle settlements. They would not have hung about. Would they have bothered to search for the little girl? Again, maybe or maybe not.

Who was feeding Crookshanks? He had his own cat door but that did not help. If he felt neglected he would wander off and get into trouble. Had Basingly called her parents? They were not happy about her doing fieldwork. They had seen Bill. And now they had to wait for news. She had spared them the worst when she had sent them to Australia but there was nothing she could do to protect them now.

Except escape. The grim reality was whoever was holding her need only hold her for another three months or so. Much after that and she would be too weighed down to run. Fucking hell, she would be huge. Hermione blinked fast, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Do not think about it. Focus on the solution not problem.

Eventually she cajoled herself into getting out of bed. It took longer than Hermione liked to admit. She was so tired. But she made herself do a circuit of the room, following the walls to get an idea of the size of her cell. It was bigger than she had expected suggesting an industrial use. A bathhouse perhaps? Her hands brushed against what felt like shower faucets. She turned one experimentally but nothing happened.

She found the door. It was metal and did not shift a centimetre no matter which way she pushed, pulled or slid. Hermione was reasonably sure it slid but without tools there was not a lot more she could do with it. She could kick it and she did for no better reason that she was not going to accept being locked up in the dark with good grace. Nett result was a sore foot.

Continuing on around the walls Hermione found a much smaller door set low in the wall. A hatchway somewhere, it seemed. She got the blanket so she was not sitting on the cold floor then set to getting this door open. The hinges were on her side of the wall. Feeling for latches on the edge opposite the cylindrical bumps, she found a blocky lump. This would be much easier if she could see what she was doing.

By trial and error, Hermione found which protrusions were the latches and tried to open them. There was something sticky on her fingers when she gripped the catch. Echoes of the wet patches on the mattress made her automatically wipe her hands with a grimace. Get a grip! She told herself sternly. Stubbornly, she sniffed at her fingertips. The substance smelled like oil with a strong hint of rust. An old door recently lubricated.

On the right track then, Hermione smiled to herself. She shoved and rattled the latch then pulled. The small door opened with a groan but it opened freely. Peering forward she could not see much but she thought the darkness was a little greyer, suggesting some source of light beyond. Or her optic nerves could be misfiring in an attempt to process visual information when there was none.

Hermione felt around the interior of the cavity. The walls were tiled but the floor was wooden. She ventured in, finding she could crawl quite easily but standing up involved crouching over painfully. The tunnel extended for the count of thirty-one before ending in a wooden panel. It gave a little when she pushed against it gently so she shoved.

Moonlight flooded in. Hermione looked away, blinking, but her eyes adjusted readily enough telling her she had not been kept in the dark for too long. She was still in the dark metaphorically speaking but she aimed to remedy that. Emerging out of the tunnel into a partially overgrown cobbled courtyard, she took a deep breath. There was a brick wall a few strides ahead of her, more courtyard ending in bushes to the left and building to the right.

Hermione hurried to the wall. It was old, the mortal falling away. There were plenty of hand and footholds so she got up relatively easily only skinning one shin in the process. She paused on top of the wall, lying flat so she would not be obvious. Moorland stretched out before her. The treeless, green, bumpy hills beaconed so she lowered herself to the ground and blanket-clad set off. She got all of about twenty metres before a voice behind her snarled.

“Why do you keep running away from me, bitch?”

“Because I do not want to be here!” Hermione answered forcefully. Whatever caution she had possessed in dealing with him had gone when she had felt her swollen belly. Fenrir Greyback, in the half-wolf form he seemed to favour, approached her menacingly. She backed away not because she was scared of him but because he had touched her entirely too much already.

“It is good here. Open. Free.” He spread his arms to embrace the sky. “No people pushing in on you. No walls shutting you away.”

“Not for me!” Hermione spat. “I was kidnapped. I was held prisoner. My freedom ended when you decided you had an itch.” She fisted her hands on her hips. There was no backing down now. Her appeasement gambit had not worked. She had been unaware there was a conspiracy to ruin her life but now she did know, Hell hath no fury.

“You’re mine!” Fenrir growled. He was a nightmare direct from the hindbrain, an ancestral memory from monkey-people cowering in caves.

“You’re deluded!” She snarled back. He backhanded her hard enough to knock her off her feet. Hermione struggled to one knee, ready to launch herself at him when a wave of nausea crashed over her. She swallowed and gagged, managing not to empty her stomach but her opportunity for retaliation passed. Fenrir circled around her then dropped to his haunches so he could grab her.

“Our cubs do not want you to fight me.” His rumbling chuckle was particularly offensive when he put his hand on her lower abdomen where her bump was most prominent. Hermione twisted in his grip to claw his eyes out. Fenrir jerked his head away and shouldered her onto the ground. He was a bully. He shamelessly used his greater weight to pin her, straddling her thighs so she could not kick him. She tried obstinately to do so but he just leaned harder and caught her wrists when she hit him.

“I hate you.” Hermione did not shout. She did not even hiss viciously. Her words were a cold statement of fact. She hated him with every particle of her being. And he just laughed, rubbing his stiffening penis against her belly insolently.

“Good.” Fenrir grinned so broadly his fangs glinted in the moonlight. Hermione screamed with outrage. The lycanthrope was enjoying this. She could feel his arousal. He shifted his weight, getting a knee between her legs ready to spread them and enter her. She struggled but her efforts to get loose just excited him further.

“I swear, werewolf, if your rutting makes her miscarry I’ll have you castrated.” A man’s voice, young and confident, intruded on the fraught scene. Hermione turned her head to stare at the speaker who was hurrying over to them with wand drawn. Fenrir bared his teeth further but ceased his effort to mate his bitch.

“Patrick?” Hermione said, disbelieving. It had to be a masking charm or Polyjuice. It could not be the graduate student the MIS Department had so avidly recruited. She had read his file! He had got top marks in Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid had personally recommended him!

“Hello, Hermione. Do not bother to get up.” Patrick Ryan smiled at her, his eyes straying to her breasts before returning to meet her stare. “You really should have stayed where you were put.” His tone was casual but his wand did not waver. “It’s not like we were not going to feed you. You’re eating for four now, you know.” He winked at her. Fenrir growled at the wizard’s flirting and Ryan became more professional. “Are you going to be a good girl and go back to your room?”

“Fuck you!” Hermione usually tried not to swear aloud. No one respected a witch with a potty-mouth but this was truly a moment for profanity.

“Tempting.” Ryan agreed as though she had offered rather than cursed. “But your mate won't let anyone else play with his toy, alas.” He grinned at her, the harsh shadows turning his expression into something as monstrous as Fenrir. “I got to watch, though. Scientific method is vital in magical research.” He mimicked her phrase with devastating parody. “Had to make sure you were thoroughly fertilised.” His gaze travelled over her body. “I must say Ms Granger, once you got started it was all Beastie could do to keep up.”

“Why?” The question burst out of her. Hermione could not comprehend this madness.

“Why you? Or why anyone?” Ryan queried then shrugged. “We were going to use Lynch but Mr Picky here did not like her scent. Then when you took over the team, he was mad keen to have you.” He leered at her then laughed. “You have excellent timing, by the way. The conjunction of your cycle, the equinox and the moon was nearly perfect. It’s quite likely you conceived the first time though of course we had to be sure. So we got to keep you for a while.”

Fenrir’s teeth ground but the wizard did not seem to notice. Ryan was enjoying his gloating too much.

“We had the perfect place picked out for your stay, an old barn that was unplottable. But Rover got spooked when the Aurors swept the area and he moved you to that cottage.” He frowned. Everything had been going so well until then. Tethering her to the wall had lacked style but it had been effective. Right up until the lycanthrope got an attack of stupid. “I did not know he’d left the kid alive until we got to Scotland. Of course, by then it was too late to tidy up.”

“You knew he killed Elinor’s parents?” Indignation warred with hope. That Ryan could so lightly discard two people’s lives was beyond the pale but if he had not known about the little girl then Elinor might be alright. Hermione did not know whether to cross her fingers or clench her fists.

“They were only Muggles.” The idle malice was too unthinking to be feigned. He truly believed that. “But dogboy screwed up so we had to drag you to this dump.” He smirked. “There’s nothing to do here but drink whiskey, fish and watch him fuck you.” Ryan rubbed himself lewdly. He spoke directly to Fenrir this time, having almost ignored him until that point. “Well, get on with it, gently mind, then I’ll stun her and we’ll drag her back to bed.”

The werewolf leapt for his throat.


	10. Back to School

Fenrir caught the wizard by surprise. One moment of distraction was all it took. Patrick Ryan did not have the advantage of combat experience or Constant Vigilance. He had barely started Hogwarts when the War ended. The werewolf tore his throat out before he had time to realise the danger.

Hermione acted much faster. She dove for Ryan’s wand. He had dropped it when he fell so she was spared having to snatch it out of his dying hand. The wood felt wrong to her touch but it did not matter. There was no time for finesse. She disapparated without a backwards glance.

Apparating was not her favourite mode of transport. Hermione appeared on the doorstep of Honeydukes and promptly threw up. The lurch of arrival and the chaotic mix of scents from the sweetshop offended her stomach. Morning sickness ought to be outlawed, she thought, and it was not even dawn. Considering how she could have splinched herself with a strange wand, just spewing over someone’s front door was a minor embarrassment.

Once she had got her stomach under control, Hermione cleaned herself and the shop frontage. She charmed a discarded Daily Prophet into a set of robes then trudged to Hogwarts. The school had been the closest familiar place she could think of in a hurry. She had not wanted to risk the longer trip home or to her less well known office in Carlisle.

Hogwarts seemed eternal to her as she neared. It had lasted wars, revolts, underage wizards and countless other calamities, most of which she could still readily name. The school was a welcome sanctuary and she was fighting back tears by the time she got to the front door.

Since the retirement of Argus Filch, discrete admittance into Hogwarts could be achieved with much less sour muttering. Hermione got to Headmistress McGonagall’s suite with a minimum of disturbance. The charmed robes were beginning to return to their original form and the effort of maintaining her composure was starting to tell. She knocked then lent against the jamb to wait.

It was not long before the door opened. The firm voice so well remembered from her years in Gryffindor washed over her as her former Head of House exclaimed in surprise. Hermione blinked at Minerva’s tartan dressing gown and tried to excuse her unexpected visit but sobs choked her.

“My dear, come with me.” The Headmistress took her arm gently and escorted her to the infirmary. Hermione gasped out an explanation on the way but went with her teacher with perfect trust, allowing herself to be put into the care of a hastily roused Madam Pomfrey. Minerva and Poppy shared a significant glance after they saw her bruises but neither pestered her for confirmation.

“You’ve got to warn the Ministry Fenrir Greyback is loose.” Hermione said urgently as she was tucked into bed. “And let everyone know I’m alright. And there’s a little girl somewhere in Cumbria. Her parents were killed. I’ve got to find out if she’s safe.” She accepted a potion without demur and it was only when she felt drowsy and her head dropped onto the pillow that she protested she had slept enough...

Someone was patting her hand. Hermione roused with a start, waking with none of the grogginess she had previously experienced upon opening her eyes in an unexpected place. It was getting old though. Madam Pomfrey helped her sit up and adjusted her pillows. Soft dawn light and the scent of wildflowers from the open windows dispelled her worry she had been only dreaming of being safe.

“You were not asleep long.” The Healer poured her a glass of water before fetching a breakfast tray. Hermione drank gratefully then stared at the food. Porridge, dry toast and a banana; all bland and acceptable to an unsettled stomach. Poppy noted her gaze and said gently. “You are seven weeks along and there are complications.”

“You know what the father is, then.” Hermione said dully. She ate because she was hungry. It seemed the sensible thing to do. Madam Pomfrey noticed the younger woman clenched the spoon so tightly her knuckles were white but she chose not to remark upon it.

“I cast the Graviditas charm twice to be sure.” Was all she said. While Hermione had been asleep, she and Minerva had conferred. Her disappearance had been prominent in both the wizarding and Muggle news. They had followed the story closely. It was not Arithmancy to add her state of undress, bruises and burgeoning stomach into a reasonable solution. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“How many?”

“Three.” Madam Pomfrey did not believe in evasion when it came to treating patients but she could not bring herself to say the next part bluntly so she compromised. “All seem to have inherited the condition.” She had cast those charms several times.

“That does not surprise me.” Hermione finished her porridge, feeling numb. She had been almost sure but hearing it from a Mediwitch had slain her last faint hope that she was wrong. Ryan’s ‘eating for four’ remark strongly suggested he had cast the same spells as Madam Pomfrey, though she was surprised he had the skill. “What are my options?”

“I’m afraid the safest thing to do might be to let nature take her course.” The Healer held up her hands to forestall her patient’s objections. “You do not have to say anything, I know you want to feel clean again, to rid yourself of what happened but this is not an ordinary situation.” Poppy was sympathetic but she could not do other than be honest. “It is entirely possible you will miscarry before the end of your first trimester. From what little I know about such matters, that is the usual result.”

“How usual?” The scientist witch asked automatically. Hermione watched Madam Pomfrey retrieve a book from her desk then accepted the tome from her. Impediments in Magical Gestations with Particular Emphasis on Rare Conditions and Phenomena with Instructions for the Midwife, was not light reading. Nor particularly recent judging from the battered cover.

Hermione frowned. This was exactly the sort of slipshod practise that got up her nose. One wizard somewhere once finds out something, publishes it and suddenly it’s fact. No peer review, no independent studies, no follow-up. Just blind acceptance of the printed word. She opened the book and began to read. Letting out her breath in a small, relieved sigh, Poppy Pomfrey left her to it.


	11. the Folks

Minerva McGonagall, before she informed the Aurors or the Ministry of Magic, went to Surrey to collect Martin and Louise Granger so they would be the first to know their daughter was safe. Muggle access to Hogwarts was restricted but the Headmistress was quite prepared to bend the rules for the sake of one of the school’s most accomplished alumnae.

It was no great surprise to her that they found Hermione with her nose in a book. She excused herself to give the Grangers privacy. Minerva intended to find out precisely how the Ministry could be so reckless in allowing one of the most infamous war criminals escape their custody. Heads would roll. There would be other more private calls as well. Something had to be done.

“Darling, we were so worried!” Louise hugged her daughter, smoothing a hand through her tangled hair as though she could not quite believe she was there. Red rimmed eyes with dark smudges that careful foundation could not conceal told Hermione everything she needed to know. Her father had cut himself shaving. He still had little bits of paper sticking to his neck. He only did that when he was upset. Martin sat down on the edge of her bed and patted her distractedly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Hermione cried into her mother’s cardigan. Both her parents offered her handkerchiefs and the memory of stuffing her jeans pocket with hankies made her give a choked laugh, which turned into hiccups. She drank some water and pulled herself together. Her parents had been briefed by Headmistress McGonagall but the sight of blue-purple bruises around her wrists made the Grangers’ wish not for the first time that their only child was anything but a witch.

“We collected your mail and Crookshanks has been eating his weight in salmon.” Martin was never very good at expressing his feelings so took refuge in being efficient. “You have some scrolls from your lawyers to sign. We paid your electricity bill.” He ground to a halt, noticing the title of the book his daughter had been reading. How could he ask that? Louise followed his gaze then closed her eyes and hugged her little girl tighter.

“It was a werewolf.” Hermione said almost unwillingly. She did not want to add to her parents’ fears. Slowly, in disjointed pieces she told them what had happened. They listened quietly without interrupting. Louise paled to milk. She could guess the bits her daughter left out. Martin was privately very, very glad the monster had got that wizard first because otherwise he would have been obliged to hunt him down. There was a lot a dentist could do to make someone suffer, particularly if they did it without anaesthetic.

“Whatever you decide, we will support you, you know that.” Louise assured. Hermione nodded shakily. Petting her hand, Mrs Granger ventured. “There are medical ways. Surgical, I mean. My gynaecologist could give you a referral or whatever you need to get something done.”

“Make an appointment, mum.” She did not doubt Madam Pomfrey’s diagnosis but Hermione was not prepared to ignore any alternatives. Impediments, despite its gruesomely accurate diagrams, had not answered all her questions. According to the author, ‘usual’ meant in the two cases I have seen and by hearsay. She needed to do some more research. An ultrasound would help, though how she was going to phrase that request without sounding insane she did not know.

“Ron’s been calling. Often.” Martin was in two minds about his nearly former son-in-law. On one hand, he understood people were not perfect. On the other hand, the red-haired jerk had given his vow to Hermione then broken it. There had been articles in the Daily Prophet, to which the Grangers’ subscribed as surreptitiously as if it had been pornography. His wife shot him a warning look but he continued. “He sounded concerned.”

“Ron can burn in Hell.” Hermione said curtly then relented. “I’ll owl everyone and let them know I’m okay before I speak to the Aurors. That will probably take a while.” She adjusted the bedding, dreading the debriefing she had to face. After Voldemort’s death she had talked for weeks to people from the Ministry, giving testimony, confirming statements, granting interviews for the official account. It had been exhausting. “Can you please tell me what happened to Elinor?”

“A BT tech found her in his van when he came back with a tow truck.” Louise answered promptly. They had read every newspaper, watched every newscast. “The truck driver recognised Morgan’s Cottage, apparently he knew the family, and took her to her grandparents.” She hesitated then said carefully. “The police found her parents. And the farmer. There was nothing that could be done.”

Hermione simply nodded, feeling light-headed with a mixture of relief and sorrow.

“The story was an escapee from Carstairs Hospital went on a rampage. Some reporters came to the house after your name was published.” Martin added. “Two of those Auras came too.” He had not liked that in the slightest. Two grown men in dresses stomping about their house talking to them like they were idiot children. “They told us what we could and could not say to the press.”

“That’s Aurors, Mr Granger.” Harry corrected from the doorway. Ron did not say anything.

“The Ministry sent you?” Hermione’s surprise made the question sound insulting. Ron continued to look at everything but at the woman in the bed. Harry answered hastily to avoid a fight. He had got into that habit after the brunette, though his two best friends had argued a lot even before Ron’s indiscretion.

“I volunteered and Ron is still legally your next of kin. He insisted on coming. We’re both really worried about you, ‘Mione.” Harry glanced apologetically to Mr and Mrs Granger. They were Hermione’s parents but until her divorce was finalised they did not have priority. The Ministry had improved its attitude to Muggles immensely since the War but most wizards still preferred dealing with other wizards.

“He came and now he can go.” Hermione put a little too much emphasis on ‘came’ for courtesy but she managed to keep her tone moderate. “I’ll talk to you, Harry, in private.” She looked to her parents, who abided by her unspoken request and excused themselves from the infirmary. Perhaps there was somewhere in this Gormenghast they could get a cup of tea. Mutely, Ron followed them out.

“He made a mistake.” The Boy Who Lived sounded more like the Man Who Tried. Harry said his piece on that subject then put it aside. He was here in his official capacity as the most senior Auror available. He took a seat by her bedside, pulling out scroll and a Quick-Quotes quill. He had learned late but Hermione’s habit of taking notes had proven itself very useful to him too. “I’m here for you so I’ll stop talking.” Explaining was much easier when people did not keep interrupting. He smiled at her. “Just the facts, ma’am.”

Hermione smiled back in spite of everything. Harry had found his vocation and had blossomed as an Auror. None of his charm or confidence was feigned. Taking a deep breath, she started with Hutchins’ farm then the barn. She managed with a minimum of queasiness until she had to describe what she had done in the Cottage. The recollection of offering herself to the werewolf made her turn green. Harry found a pail for her. She used it in between explaining about her hazy memories and Patrick Ryan.

“Do you have any idea where in Scotland you were being held?” Harry asked, trying to find something to say. ‘I’m sorry’ just did not cut the mustard. He was going to find Greyback and ensure he was punished so thoroughly no one ever raised a hand to her again. 

The entry of a young Hufflepuff in search of Madam Pomfrey delayed Hermione’s reply. Poppy emerged from her office, where she had been keeping a discrete eye on her patient, to accompany the 2nd year to his Common room. Their whispered conversation, and the boy’s blushes, distracted Hermione and she had run out of second-hand porridge so she drank water slowly then sighed.

“I have no idea. I think it could be a distillery. Ryan talked about drinking whiskey and the room where I woke was tiled. Maybe it was a brewing area? I just do not know.” Hermione was not much of a drinker and had only the vaguest idea of how liquor was made. “It was a Muggle building, old enough to be turn of the century before last.”

“I’ll get right on this, ‘Mione.” Harry said in his professional voice. He stood up, gave her a quick hug then Apparated away before his self-control wavered and she saw the distress on his face. Hermione sat back to stare at the ceiling. It was not much to go on. Maybe if she had looked around the building rather than rushing for the wall she could have found out more.

Giving into curiosity, Hermione pulled up her hospital robe to look at her belly. She had not seen it in the clear light of day and she was frankly interested. Revolted too but if she kept thinking about that she would not be able to do anything constructive. So, emptying her mind of all but book-learning, she studied her bump.

It looked rather more obvious than it felt. She tried sucking in her stomach but that just made her want to go to the bathroom. Feeling slightly stupid, she poked herself. The bump was hardish. Hermione laughed, mostly from nerves. Hardish! What sort of logical observation was that?

There was a low noise almost like a growl. She tensed instantly, reaching for Ryan’s wand that she had kept close on the bedside table. Hermione jumped out of bed to get her back to a wall. She was not far from hexing anything that moved. Then she noticed a pair of shoes at the foot of the bed opposite hers. They had been out of sight while she was sitting down but they were visible now. And attached to socks.

“That is a damn dirty trick, Ron.”

“You didn't leave me any choice.” Ron retorted, pulling off the invisibility cloak. He had to beg Harry to allow him to accompany him. He only wanted to make sure she was alright. To let her know that whatever had happened between them he bore her no ill-will. Though she should have at least let him grab a pair of pants before kicking him out. They’d barely spoken in nine months and when he had talked to the papers to give his side of the story it had come out all wrong.

“That’s because I do not want to talk to you.” Hermione lowered the wand rather than give into the temptation to hit him with a curse. She did not need this right now. “Thank you for your concern. Do tell your family I am fine.” She said formally but with little warmth. “Now get out.”

“You’re not fine.” Ron was not going anywhere until he got some answers. He had missed her explanation while he Apparated to Harry’s house to get the cloak. Then he had to wait until someone went into the infirmary because they’d notice a door opening by itself. But he had seen the problem with his own eyes when she pulled up her robe. “You’re going to have a baby.”

“That’s none of your business!” Where did he get off prying into her life? He’d made it quite clear she was not a priority when compared to a slut in orange knickers. “They’re not yours. It is not your problem.” Hermione took a deep breath to rein in her anger. “I do not need your help, Ronald. Go home.”

“You need someone’s help! You were laughing about it!” Ron caught himself shouting. It never failed. As soon as she put on that lecturing voice, he got peeved. Did she think he was so stupid he would not realise what had happened? He’d heard his Dad talking about it. Helsinki Syndrome or something. Or she could be under an Imperius. After the War, missing people had come back different. He did not want that to happen to her.

“I can laugh at whatever I damn well want!” Hermione could not believe she was having this conversation.

“You’re talking nonsense.” He took a few steps towards her, wary of that wand. Ron did not like the look in her eye. Bill got that look sometimes, particularly around the full moon. Who knew what sort of strange influence those creatures inside her had over Hermione? She had to get rid of them. Then when there was time, she and he could talk about things. “It will be alright. Madam Pomfrey will make something. You can take it and no one has to know.”

“I can't!” Hermione nearly screamed. She could not risk a magical abortion until she confirmed the dangers. Massive blood loss was a risk even in normal terminations. The wizarding world yearned for children. There had not been nearly as much effort in finding ways to end a pregnancy as there had been in finding ways to start one. There were several contraception charms to ensure the right sort of children but very few charms to end them. And most of those were Dark Magic.

“So you’ll have his kids but not mine?” The shock of her refusal forced the words out of his mouth before Ron could stop himself. He did not mean it like that but it just slipped out fuelled by frustration. He instantly tried to explain. “Hermione, I...”

“Silencio!” She had heard quite enough. Ryan’s wand jerked in her hand as she cast, suggesting it was not a charm he often used. No, Hermione thought bitterly, he had preferred more mundane gags. Ron went mute though his mouth still flapped. Nothing short of a Stupefy was going to get him to stop. After suffering so many herself, she was reluctant to cast a stunning spell on someone else, particularly with an unfamiliar wand. So she settled for yelling at him.

“You listen to me, Ronald Weasley. You are my ex-husband. Ex as in former. Regardless of how long the Ministry takes to sort out the paperwork, you may officially consider yourself unwanted.” Hermione blinked. She was not going to cry in front of him. He moved towards her and she pointed the wand at him. He stopped. “I will do what I think is right, for me and for my children.” Whatever the right thing was, whenever she found it. “And if you ever speak to me like that again I will hex off your tongue and make you eat it!”


	12. Breakfast Conference

The week did not greatly improve after Ron stormed out of the infirmary. Her parents returned but she had been so upset she broke down completely in front of them. It was only the impossibility of a Muggle finding the Burrow that kept her father from extracting something permanently from her ex-husband. 

Harry brought with a team of Aurors to document her physical condition and interview both her in more detail. He saw his stalwart 'Mione sobbing hysterically in her mother's arms and sent the wizards back to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to give his friend time to recover.

She had been so exhausted she spent the night at Hogwarts. Her mother stayed while Harry took her father home then continued on to liaise with the police. After that the fun really started. Hermione dragged herself through police interviews, which could not be put off, an obligatory press conference and a tearful meeting with Elinor’s grandparents. The little girl remembered her and the photo of them hugging was front page news.

An exclusive interview with the Guardian got the reporters off her back and gained her an extraordinary amount of money about which she felt rather guilty. There were calls for tighter security at mental health institutions then the Muggle side of the story ebbed away as the world moved on. The wizarding world proved much more difficult to satiate...

The Aurors and the DMLE treated her with kid gloves out of respect. Hermione had to admit, even as she clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking, they were as tactful as they could be. But the investigation charms and the questions left her feeling as naked as she had been in the barn. It had been a relief to retreat to her own home and Scourgify herself over and over and over.

Very early in the morning at the beginning of her eighth week, Hermione got out of the bath, belted on a robe and padded downstairs to open the door. Basingly had been by the day before to drop off her wand, which her team had found at the farm, along with a stack of work. She was officially on medical leave at Kingsley Shacklebolt’s direct order but she had not been prepared to sit at home twiddling her thumbs. So she had her own vine wood in her hand when she peeked through the front curtains. There was a redhead at the door but a welcome one.

“Ginny, should you be on your feet?” Hermione let her in, tucking her wand in the pocket of her robe so she would not look like a paranoid nutcase. Hopefully her friend would not notice all the new wards she had cast. Ginevra Potter waddled in laden with bags and an almost due second baby.

“I have feet?” Ginny grinned. She bumped the door shut with a practised hip then lent against it. “Harry sent me to warn you Rita Skeeter knows I’m not the only one who’s knitting booties.” Dropping parcels, she gave Hermione that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet quite literally hot off the press. A Quidditch scandal kept her abduction off the front page but page three was no comfort. The Muggle photo was there alongside a wizarding photo of her with the Minister of Magic.

“I should have squished her.” Hermione read the article as she helped Ginny into the kitchen with the bags. Skeeter’s poison quill was in fine form but she knew bugger all about obstetrics, miss-guessing how far along was her victim. That was a small blessing but not one about which Hermione could be very philosophical.

“Yeah.” Ginny sank onto a chair then charmed it to adjust so she could sit comfortably. Everything from her shoulders down ached. “Still could. It’d improve the world no end.”

“There was an amnesty for unregistered Animagi a few years ago. She registered. I checked.” Hermione tossed the paper disgustedly onto the counter. Crookshanks, prowling for his breakfast, promptly sat on it. His unvocalised opinion got him a fond chin scratching from his witch.

“I meant a more literal squishing.” Ginny fished around in one of the bags and extracted a jar of something greenish and horribly medicinal looking. “Mum and Ron had a big fight, after he got his voice back. He told her about your little chat in the infirmary.” She loved her brother dearly but he had a gift for ruining his life with his own temper. “This stuff works a treat for morning sickness. I hardly spewed at all for this one.”

“I’ve got an appointment with the gynaecologist this afternoon. I want to consult her before I have a termination.” Hermione tried to correct her gently. She did not know how much Ginny knew about what had happened. Harry could be very close-mouthed when it suited him. Mrs Potter looked surprised.

“Ron said you were keeping them.” She set the jar down, feeling very awkward. “He was very emphatic about that. Fairly ranting. He said you refused to take a potion.” Ginny regretted her supportive gesture. She had not discussed it with her husband. After she heard the story from Molly and then Ron, she had thought the matter settled. Now she had put her foot right in it.

“I did not refuse. There was not a safe one to take. Madam Pomfrey suggested I simply wait to miscarry rather than risk any of the potions she knew.” Hermione kicked a skirting board. If the rest of the Weasleys had not been so amiable she would have put Ron’s moronic behaviour down to inbreeding. “I’m looking into every avenue there is. This is a bit more complicated than finding a coat hanger.”

“What’s a coat hanger got to do with it?” Ginny asked, puzzled. Ron had also said Hermione was raving but that was likely more his interpretation. Though repeated Stupefying curses could cause permanent damage.

“It’s a Muggle thing.” She took the easy way out rather than explain feminist history to a witch. “Look, thanks for the thought. I’ll take some of that green stuff. The only thing I’ve been able to keep down this week is vegetable soup. I’ve been doing all my reading in the loo.”

“I know all about that.” Mrs Potter laughed. She handed over the herbal remedy. “It tastes terrible. Neville made it.” That made Hermione smile. A wry and watery smile was still a smile, which reassured them both immeasurably.

Ginny stayed until Mrs Granger arrived. The dentist was quite brittle with her and the witch quickly bade her farewells. Hermione saw her to the door to apologise but Ginny just nodded shrewdly then rolled off to discretely use a portkey. She did not want to risk splinching so far along and her former sister-in-law had disconnected her house from the Floo network to keep Weasleys from visiting unannounced.

“She had some nerve coming here, flaunting her perfect baby.” Louise had not slept well even after Martin had poured her a brandy to calm her. While their daughter had been missing, both of them had taken to prowling the house at odd hours cleaning things. With Hermione back, life had settled. Until the day of The Appointment. Her hands clenched around the kettle as she made herself a cup of tea. She spilled hot water over the counter then crossly wiped it up.

“Mum.” Hermione began, uncertain what to say. Her mother wrung out the sponge in the sink then closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself.

“I know she is your friend, darling. I am sure she meant well.” Shortly after the final debacle, she and Molly Weasley had exchanged words on the topic of grandchildren. Louise had accused her of being greedy considering how many children and grandchildren the witch already had. She regretted that now she understood. Even though... “Go get dressed. We need to leave soon or we’ll be late.”

“You don't have to come with me.” Hermione reached out to her mother. Louise held her hand and patted it. She had not planned to discuss this. Indeed, she had planned not to discuss it but when she looked at her daughter she saw her for the first time as a grown woman. Even at her wedding, Mrs Granger had thought her little girl was playing dress-up. Ron’s immaturity had not helped. Now, though, Hermione was an adult. Louise felt obscurely she should mourn.

“Yes, I do.” She squeezed her hand. “Darling, I think you are doing the right thing. Honestly I do.” Martin had been quite firm in his resolve and she wished she could be so certain. “But I cannot help think about my grandchildren. It is silly and I know I shouldn't say anything and it is not the right time for this and a thousand other things but I wish...” Louise took a shaky breath to still her babbling. “I wish it was the right time and that things were different.”

“Oh mum.” Hermione hugged her, tears coming quickly because it took bloody nothing to set her off and her mother looked so troubled. There had to be something intelligent to say, something that would sort everything out. She had no idea what it was and very much doubted she would find it in a book. It was Crookshanks who broke the moment, rubbing up against Louise’s legs insistently. He recognised her as someone who could be extorted for treats and he had not eaten since breakfast.

“You big fibber!” Mrs Granger scolded the cat as he meowed loudly then made use of a handkerchief. It was a good thing she rarely wore mascara otherwise she would have perpetual panda eyes. Hermione ducked upstairs to change while her mother remonstrated with the half-kneazle.

Crookshanks had to be bribed with a lamb chop to allow them to get into Louise’s Volvo. He took his job as Hermione’s familiar very seriously, except in the presence of food. They drove sedately into London and negotiated traffic, eventually finding a parking space. By the time they got to the specialist’s office, Hermione had memorised exactly what she was going to say. It had taken a lot of editing.

Dr Kapur was a middle aged Punjabi woman who listened quietly, heard a great deal more and examined her patient with gentle hands. Hermione studied the diplomas on the wall while blood was drawn and stirrup related activity happened. Then they went into the next room for an ultrasound. She gasped at the cold gel and fought an urge to pee whenever the doctor pressed down firmly. The gynaecologist turned the monitor around so she could watch.

There was not much to see. The amniotic sacs looked like blobs, the embryos tiny. But she could hear their heartbeats and felt a surge of rage that she should be experiencing this moment under these circumstances. Her mother held her hand tightly as Dr Kapur scanned then studied the images. They returned to the consulting room for the verdict.

“The pregnancy is entering the third month, there are three embryos all of which are currently viable.” The doctor’s lilting accent did not allay Hermione’s concerns. Dr Kapur gave the bad news. “You asked about a chemical termination and I am afraid I cannot recommend it. The placentas are deeply embedded. Surgical removal would be more effective thought at this time it is likely to result in significant, I should say, life threatening haemorrhage and permanent scarring.”

“And the likelihood of miscarriage?” Hermione had also prepped a list of questions. She started at the top. It was quite a long list. Dr Kapur looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment until her bedside manner asserted itself.

“There may be developmental complications. The embryos are presented abnormally. I have not seen a case previously similar to this. It is possible this is a partial molar pregnancy though three such gestating simultaneously is extremely unusual.” She intensely disliked moments such as this when all she could do was place her patient in the lap of the gods. “If it is as I suspect, your body will shortly begin to shut down blood supply to the placentas. Most molar pregnancies end before the twelfth week. In that situation, the blighted embryos will be far easier to remove.”

“How much easier?” The question dropped like a stone into a still pond. Ripples of silence spread outwards. Dr Kapur hesitated but something in her patient's demeanour suggested she would rather have blunt than kind.

“If the placentas detach naturally then it will be straightforward. But I have not seen a pregnancy present like this before.” The gynaecologist had once delivered a baby under a railway carriage after a derailment. In a monsoon. Years of medical practise, and right now her instincts said 'referral' and 'pray'. “If the placentas do not detach, you may face the prospect of a hysterectomy. That may be a likely outcome regardless.”

“Hysterectomy?” Louise had been silent during the consultation. She was here for moral support not to wail lamentations. She and Martin had tried for years to have Hermione. To have her daughter's future motherhood options dictated by a horror movie villain was unacceptable. Impossible. “We would like to speak with a specialist.”

“I think that is wise.” Dr Kapur wrote down a list of doctors qualified to consult on this case. It was not a long list. “The waiting times for a consultation are lengthy. I will do what I can to help but you might run out of time. The last patient I referred had to wait five months.”

“So that’s it? I just cross my fingers?” Was this seriously her best option? Hermione could understand Madam Pomfrey suggesting she not interfere but a doctor counselling the same laissez-faire approach seemed totally unreasonable. She did not want to sit around and wait to hopefully not bleed to death.

“I suggest making another appointment at this clinic in a month’s time. If the situation has not improved or corrected itself by then we will be in better stead to look at other options.” Dr Kapur soothed. “For the time being, patience is the best medicine.”


	13. Persistence

Hermione was silent all the way home. Louise tried several times to engage her daughter in conversation but received only monosyllabic replies. Clearly, she was thinking about something, or possibly sulking though she had grown out of that habit as soon as she had learned to read. Hermione roused enough to thank her mother for the lift and ask to be left alone so she could have a nap. She would call, she promised.

After waving goodbye, Hermione waited until the Volvo was out of sight before Disapparating. There was someone she needed to talk to and she was trying hard not to think of him as her last chance. Because she still had options. There was no need to panic. She would think of something. She always had.

The building Neville modestly called his workshop was a large Tudor barn any architect would have sold their soul to own. Usually Hermione paused to admire the dark wood panelling and the raffish dormer windows but not today. The double doors were propped open by heavy ceramic pots so she went straight in.

People in overalls variously trimming or wrestling with flora waved as she marched through the work area to Neville's office under the hayloft. Hermione reflexively waved back but would have been hard pressed to put names to faces right now.

She still stopped to knock on the door. She hated when people barged into her office so tried to extended to others the same consideration. The slight delay between knock and admittance attenuated her nerves painfully. The doctor's visit had upset her more than she had realised. Perhaps she should have given herself some time to recover before coming here.

“I should've owled, Neville, but I...” Hermione jumped into the conversation as the door opened then stared in unflattering surprise at the witch standing in front of her. “Ah, Miss Lestrange. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Madame Granger.” Nemesia's bruise-coloured eyes blinked, the only sign of mutual surprise before she stepped quickly aside to allow her boss into the room.

“Thank you.” Despite egalitarian effort, Hermione always felt formal around the Anglo-French witch. Nemesia seemed to prefer it that way. The Beauxbatons' manners and the stigma of her surname helped to keep everyone at a distance. “I thought Tristan was collecting our order this week.”

“He is, Madame. Neville and I took luncheon together.” Nemesia gave her a polite smile before excusing herself. As she walked away, Hermione noticed she had done something different with her asphalt hair. No Brontë governess today.

Neville was wearing a tie. It was a silk tie embroidered with many different leaves like a William Morris tapestry. Since they had left school, she had never seen him in a tie. Old robes or grass-stained jeans were more his metier.

“Neville and I.” Snape would have given her a grudging Acceptable for her raised eyebrow. “No 'Monsieur Longbottom'. I didn't realise you were friends.” Hermione found herself relieved to talk about anything than why she had come.

“Oh, we've known each other for years.” Neville was airy, pulling on a sweater to hide his tie. He had copped enough stick about it this morning from his apprentices that he did not want to have to explain again. “We met at St. Mungo's.”

“Does she have someone in long-term care too?” The question was respectful. Hermione still felt bad she had not asked Neville about his parents sooner. She had helped him in their classes but had never really got to know him until their fifth year at Hogwarts. Now she counted him as one of her closest friends. A trust forged in battle.

“Her mum.” Neville busied himself clearing scrolls off chairs so they could both sit down. “Same as my mum and dad. Nemesia's father didn't want his pretty young second wife defying him. The old bastard was desperate to have another heir, seeing how his sons were both mad as hatters. But the baby was a girl.”

“Was he tried for it?” The wry look she got was her answer.

“He died just after the Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban the first time. Of apoplexy. His temper killed him. Nemesia was raised by her Gran like me.” Neville sat down and put his feet on an upturned cauldron, meeting Hermione's eyes. His voice was gentle. “We can talk about anything you want, 'Mione, but you didn't come here to chat about my private life, did you?”

“Did Harry tell you?” Hermione winced at the shrillness of her own voice.

“No. Ron did. I saw him at the Fountain, pissed as a newt.” Neville shifted uncomfortably. The former Mrs Weasley could glare for England. “He was angry, upset and confused. And before you bite my head off, I'm not taking his side. I dragged his sodden arse home before he could make more of a spectacle of himself.”

“I need your help too.” She sat down and pulled a print-out from her handbag. His eyebrows rose at the pages and pages of crisp print. “I have been doing some reading.”

“So I see.” The Herbologist perused the list; Sanguinous, Partumsempre, the most recent developments in coagulating potions and more. Hermione had been quite thorough. But that was to be expected. “Very few of these will combine successfully with Wolfsbane, which I am sure you know would have to be included.”

“So my reading has led me to believe.” While she had done a considerable amount of research on lycanthropes as part of her work at the Magically Integrated Sciences Department, she had dealt only cursorily with procreation. Her focus had been on stopping them not making more so now she had to run to catch up. Hermione sagged back into the chair. Pique had brought her here but it was fast dissipating. That feigned nap sounded like a very good idea.

“There are possibilities, particularly if you have dispensation from the Ministry for use of the Dark Arts.” He verbally underscored the last part. War hero or not, he would not normally touch most of these recipes. There were some horrendous things you could do with any of many species of aconite. “Madam Pomfrey’s advice is sensible, really.”

There was something in his voice that stopped Hermione from launching into a diatribe on the theme of ‘why I will not cross my fingers and wait for the bad thing to hopefully go away of its own accord’. Neville knew what he was talking about and was giving her his honest opinion.

“Both Madam Pomfrey and the doctor whom I consulted this afternoon assume I'll eventually miscarry.” Hermione kept her voice even as though she was discussing the weather. “I'm not prepared to abide by that assumption because if it isn't the case, I am left up a certain creek without a paddle.”

“Most likely.” The ghost of a smile twisted Neville's mouth. He picked the list up again and reread it in silence. “This is a start. However, I will need both written permission from the Ministry and access to samples of fresh werewolf blood.” He lifted his gaze from the paper. “This is nasty stuff, 'Mione. Finding something that will stop the pregnancy without killing you will take time.”

“I can pay for you to hire more help.” Hermione thought about that thumping cheque from the newspaper. “I'd prefer to contract you privately, anyway. The less this is in the Prophet, the better.”

“Stuff the paper. I'm more worried about the damage I could do to you.” Neville reached over and held her hand. “You need to look after yourself. You're not in this alone.”

“Thanks.” She said damply blinking. “I am on medical leave so I won't be allowed access to the Lycanthrope Holding Facility but Basingly is Acting Lead Researcher. He’ll give you all the help you need.” Hermione rose to leave and paused. Neville had faced down and defeated Greyback during the war. “He might come after you, if someone finds out you're helping me.”

“He can try.” Neville hugged her. “I always need more mulch.”


	14. Meetings

Hermione took herself home, called her mother like she promised then fell into bed. Her kaleidoscopic dreams left her sweating and tense. More memories trickling back, she thought later in the shower. Or it could be hormones. Possibly it was a combination of both. She could not recall enough of the dreams to place them and it was quite possible that her mind had become accustomed enough to the Stupefy curse to cause withdrawal symptoms.

On the strength of that, she threw up.

Almost had a routine going, Hermione could just about laugh it off if she did not dwell on it. Disorientating dream, shower, puke, shower, breakfast of terribly exciting porridge, possibly another bout of vomiting and she would be good until morning tea. She got dressed even though she was not going anywhere. After the blanket-wearing experience she wanted to be fully clothed.

Trooping downstairs, she heard the familiar thump of the Daily Prophet and the owl’s quick departure as Crookshanks eyed it. That reminded her of the lawyers’ correspondence. Better get onto that. She put the kettle on and sat down to read the paper. By the time the water boiled, she had her wand out and was Apparating for the Burrow.

The end of May was particularly kind to the ramshackle old house. The spring flowers were in bloom, everything was green and the sky was the colour of cornflowers. Hermione stalked into the kitchen, tossed the Prophet on the counter amongst the dirty breakfast dishes and shouted at an astonished Molly Weasley. 

“Where the Hell is he?” Her demand bounced off the walls. With all their children grown, Molly and Arthur finally had some peace and quiet. At least they had until their former daughter-in-law arrived irate. Arthur put his wand away. It had not been so long since the war and he remembered the first reign of the Death Eaters.

“Ron has not been home for two nights!” Molly took a step back from the sink, ready to defend her son from this virago. Then she saw the front cover of the Daily Prophet. Their paper was always late, the owl did the rounds of the Lovegoods, Diggorys and Fawcetts before coming to them. Mrs Weasley groaned.

There on the cover with flashing headlines was her youngest son, drunk as an ogre with his arm around a woman best described as affordable. More headlines scrolled under the image as Ron bent double to relieve himself of his firewhiskey into a gutter. ‘Quidditch Star Reveals All!!’ and ‘Shock Baby News!’ then lastly most damningly in Hermione’s eyes ‘Wife’s Affair with Notorious Werewolf’.

“We truly haven't seen him, Hermione.” Arthur rose from the table to comfort his wife. He met Hermione’s furious gaze without flinching. “Whatever he’s said, it’s the Prophet that published it. Hexing Ron won't fix this.”

Hermione did not trust herself to answer him so she Apparated away. Not to the Daily Prophet but to her lawyers. Barkin, Todhunter and Meach was an old firm she chose chiefly because it had closed its offices during Voldemort’s purges rather than reveal its Muggle-born employees. The door was marked only by a brass plaque and the foyer decorated tastefully in pale yellow and white. The slight badgeriness of their letterhead revealed the partners’ traditional sympathies.

Florentyna Meach rearranged her schedule to see Hermione right away, partly because her client was extremely agitated and partly because it did her firm a lot of good to represent one of the Golden Trio. She had also read the Daily Prophet.

After arranging for legal wrath to descend upon the newspaper, Rita Skeeter and Ron Weasley in equal measure, Hermione went to the Ministry. She had to make an appointment to see Minister Shacklebolt but was assured the urgency of her request would be emphasised. Then she went to her Department to consult with Basingly and the other senior team leaders.

It was Basingly who took her to St Mungo’s after she fainted. One moment Hermione was reorganising rosters and diverting field personnel to Scotland to contain what she feared might be an epidemic of newly bitten werewolves spawned by Fenrir Greyback, the next moment she was on the floor. She protested as she was helped to her feet but Basingly would not listen.

He waited while a Mediwitch checked her, diagnosed over-exertion then Apparated them both back to Hermione’s house. He made chicken soup and fed Crookshanks while she drank a cup of tea.

“You do not have to do this, really.” Hermione said, a shade wretchedly. She was exhausted and close to tears again, angry with the world and herself. Basingly brought a bowl to the table, proceeding to watch her eat like a mother hen.

“I feel partially responsible for your condition.” He tidied up around the kitchen, not looking at her. “We left you alone at the farm.” Basingly put a spoon down aware he was fidgeting with it. “I promise we scoured the countryside for you. Every cave. Every barn.” He paused then said more compellingly. “You must take better care of yourself.”

The fervour in his voice made her glance up. A tendril of suspicion curled through her mind. “There’s more, isn't there?”

“Well, yes.” Basingly replied reluctantly. “The whole Department is worried. We’re not well liked in some quarters, stepping on toes that sort of thing. Too modern in our approach. We get a lot of funding because of your reputation. We’re seen as serious researchers.” He grimaced. “Everyone has worked so hard but we’re worried if something happens to you we’ll be shuffled off under the purview of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department and left to quietly gather dust.”

Hermione dropped her head into her hands. One more damn thing she could not fix. After a moment, Basingly patted her on the shoulder. 

“You’re on medical leave. Be on leave, please.” He ventured a small smile. “Once you’ve had a rest, you’ll be able to focus much better. Then we can track down that animal and give him a good thrashing.” She looked up, liked what she heard and resumed eating her soup. He grinned. “We’ll find him or my name is not Elvis.”

After Basingly had shown himself out, she went back to bed. Hermione did not think of it as ‘doing what she was told’ or as ‘medical leave’. She rationalised her downtime as a month’s sabbatical. She had not had a real holiday since her honeymoon. So, as difficult as it was for her to sit back, she let other people do the work. Her house was already heavily warded because there were people out to get her but Harry added several Auror wards and the MIS contributed some of the protections their department had developed.

She did all the things she had been meaning to do but had never had the time. Hermione pottering around in the garden until she had it just the way she wanted and sat out there with all the paperbacks she had accrued but not read. She Scourgified from attic to cellar. It was a little late for spring cleaning so she thought of it as a cleansing. 

Magically disguised for a variety of reasons, including just because she felt like being a six foot raven haired bombshell, Hermione went shopping. It was not something she did often, she had a low tolerance for extravagance, but she treated herself and relaxed. 

When Harry gave her the all clear on the Weasley front, she visited Ginny in St Mungo’s and brought a teddy bear for little Albus because she could not face buying baby clothes or blankets. Both the Potters had avoided remarking on her own continued pregnancy.

The morning sickness was still pretty bad but Neville’s green stuff made a lot of difference. Yoga helped too, once she got over the shock discovery that somewhere during her holiday she had lost her feet. Before, if she stood straight her breasts got in the way but only just. Now she had to peer right over to look at her socks. After consulting the internet, Hermione decided she looked about seven months gone and that she would not look at pictures of women expecting multiples because it scared her. 

If she was this big at twelve weeks... She stepped on that thought, heading upstairs to have a nap instead. Oh, the joy of naps. Hermione flopped onto her bed in her yoga gear. The days were beginning to drag and she had the unrivalled delight of another appointment with Dr Kapur looming, but it was not too bad. Neville was sending her regular updates, the Daily Prophet had printed a retraction and Florentyna Meach was organising Rita Skeeter’s head on a pike. Ron was still hiding.

She heard Crookshank’s cat door flap closed as he took himself off for his constitutional. He liked having her home to adore him, when he wished to be adored. But once she had sorted out the garden, he spent his afternoons sleeping in his special corner amongst the ornamental grass under the summer sun.

Hermione dozed off herself, drifting into another of those disconnected dreams. A soft breeze caressed her skin, scented with leaf mould. She sniffed but kept her eyes closed letting her subconscious sort itself. Now the ground moved beneath her and her shoulder felt wet.

Her eyes flashed open. She was in her room, on her bed and she was not alone. Hermione tried to turn to see who it was but arms tightened around her holding her where she was. Fenrir Greyback laughed and licked her shoulder again. He had missed his bitch.


	15. Visitation Rites

“How did you get in here?” Hermione demanded so angrily it was more a curse than a question. The werewolf shrugged, she felt the movement of his shoulders, and spooned tighter against her. He scissored his right leg over hers to make it difficult for her to bend her knees. If her stomach had not been as big she could have twisted out of the pin but she could not and that was one more damn thing that was his bloody fault!

“Miss me, bitch?” Fenrir sniffed her hair. Still apples. He nuzzled against her, one hand rubbing her belly. She was fat with cubs. He liked that. Her fingernails pinching viciously into his arms did not distract him. She was not getting loose until he let her.

“You are insane!” She could not kick, he was lying on her loose hair so she could not head-butt him and he had her upper arms pinned. Clawing runnels in his forearms was not working either, though it was ruining her new French manicure. Hermione wriggled trying to squirm loose and get to her wand. It was right there on the bedside table barely a metre away!

“I do not think so.” Fenrir leaned against her, pushing her further into the bed. Not too hard. He did not want to hurt her, not when she had been so good in keeping his cubs. “I just want a mate and a pack and hunting.” He licked his teeth. “I killed that wizard for you. No one eyes my bitch.”

“I am not yours.” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, biting her lip just in case this was a nightmare. It was a nightmare but unfortunately she was awake. 

“What you say does not matter.” He growled another laugh and stropped his teeth along her neck. She was breathing fast and not just from anger. “You can talk and talk but you’re carrying my litter. That makes you mine.” Fenrir bit her ear. His bitch stiffened in alarm but he did not pierce her skin. He licked her neck, making a low rumble of pleasure. “You taste good.”

“And do you plan to stay to dinner?” Hermione asked tartly. She whacked her bare foot against his instep. “Should I go to the kitchen? Fancy some toast, asshole?”

“No, bitch, I bring you meat.” Fenrir shoved his hips forward so she could feel his arousal and grinned at his joke. Hermione lashed out at him again with her fingernails, practically the only thing she could do to express her displeasure. He let her, enjoying her viciousness.

“What's your plan?” She had to acknowledge that she would not be rid of him until he had finished and she hated it. Hermione was not naturally submissive. Why didn't he just fuck her and go? Why was he taking so much time over it? She wanted to blaspheme but she did not know words bad enough to express how much she loathed her helplessness.

“After I make you howl?” He slid his hand down her belly to the crotch of her pants and rubbed her there. Her teeth ground at his presumption. If he mated with her as roughly as he wanted he would hurt her and that might hurt his cubs so he would not. But she would have to suffer for making him control himself.

“Yes. After that.” Hermione hissed. The werewolf shifted his left arm to ease her weight off his elbow and groped her breasts. She shuddered.

“I’ll go away.” Fenrir nuzzled her again. “Leaving you covered in my scent.” He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. “You know I’ll kill you if you rid yourself of our litter.” He pinched her teats making the witch gouge his wrists, trying to open a vein. “I want these cubs, bitch.”

“I do not.” Hermione screamed. “I do not!”

“I know.” He panted exultantly. Fenrir bared his teeth. He was hot for her, wanting. But he remembered how she rode him in that other bed. Tiring him so she could run. He had to punish her for that. She had to learn she was his.

Hermione sagged against him as the werewolf slowly began to tease her anew. His grip eased a little. He was not so impervious to her charms as he would like her to think. She shifted her hips up as much as his weight would allow, hoping to camouflage the movement as a flinch. So he did not notice she was just that little bit closer to her wand.

She stretched, grinding her backside into his groin as she arched. Stealth yoga, Hermione thought and had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing. The noise came out as a grunt. Fenrir growled, grabbing her breasts to make her vocalise again. He liked hearing her. So she put on good show. Not quite When Harry Met Sally but enough to make him think she was succumbing.

Pushing her shoulders back to fill his hands with her breasts, Hermione shimmied her left arm free. She clutched the sheet to pull herself up the bed. He leant back to yank down her pants. She risked a glance at the bedside table. Their exertions on the bed had bumped it, making her wand roll to the edge. Almost there.

Fenrir decided he had waited long enough. He wanted her so much. Twisting a fist in her hair to hold her, he tore the frustrating stretchy garment off her. The little pants with the flowers went too. He unhooked his leg, grabbing her ankle to spread her for him.

Hermione made herself wait for the right moment. Timing. Her heart beat in her chest, a frantic bird in a cage. When he pushed her leg up, she let him. Wait. Wait. He moved forward, ready to penetrate. She slammed her foot downwards aiming for his erection. He jerked instinctively to protect his genitals, pushing her away from him that last little bit she needed. Flailing, she grabbed her wand, pointed it behind her and shouted.

“Crucio!”

She meant it.   
Oh yes, she meant it with all her being.   
She wanted him to suffer.

But nothing happened. No flash of light. No surge of magic. Fenrir grabbed her wrist as she tried another curse. She knew a great many she wanted to try on him. They wrestled furiously, knocking over a lamp and ending up on the floor. 

Hermione clawed at his face determined to scratch out his eyes while the werewolf tried to restrain her without hurting her, too much. Fenrir had her wand arm twisted behind her back and she was fighting dirty trying to get a knee into his balls when there was a knock. Both of them froze listening fiercely.

“Mione, I’m sorry! I just want to talk!” The petitioner shouted plaintively and hammered again on her front door. It was Ron.

“I’ll kill him.” Fenrir’s eyes glittered with bloodlust as he got her in a shoulder lock but she refused to drop her wand or cease her attempts to bruise his fruit.

“You think that'll stop me?” Hermione snarled. He looked at her in surprise for a second then grinned almost happily. Fenrir licked her face as affectionately as a puppy. She stared at him dumbstruck.

“Good bitch.” He kissed her before she could shout, still holding her arm painfully behind her. Hermione punched him but he shrugged it off without breaking the kiss. Ron knocked again, yelling something. Fenrir finally came up for air. “I’ll let you kill him.”

“Get Harry!” Hermione screamed once she had got her breath back. There was an obscenity downstairs then the faint pop as Ron disapparated. She glared at the werewolf, who continued to grin at her. Fenrir bent forward and kissed her belly, slowly drawing his tongue over her skin as though he wanted to savour the flavour.

“Take good care of our litter.” He chuckled then shoved her away from him. “Regressus sanctum.” Fenrir intoned as Hermione brought her wand around to curse him. He vanished, leaving a black mark on her carpet and a lingering odour of something that had her rushing to the bathroom to be ill.

Ron and Harry found her bent over the bowl. They had arrived so quickly she had not had time to collect herself or dress. They saw her dishevelled and pale, naked and shaking with fury. Harry dragged Ron back out into the bedroom to give Hermione some privacy.

“He has to be hiding somewhere. Be careful.” The Auror ordered then began a sweep of the neat terrace house. The blackened floor had not escaped his notice nor had the strange smell, like old blood mixed with more visceral things. No wonder Hermione was talking to God through the big white telephone.

Ron did not say anything. His blue eyes were wide, almost manic. He charged down the stairs to search. He still had a conciliatory bouquet of wildflowers in his hands and appeared to have forgotten its existence.

Wincing with embarrassment and a sore arm, Hermione tidied herself up. She found some pyjamas and pulled them on before enveloping herself in a dressing gown. She wanted to lie down but she could smell him on the bed, which was nothing compared to the stink from his departure.

It was Dark Magic, she was sure of it. Regressus Sanctum was the recalling part of a demesne spell. Originally developed to allow the quick return of a wizard to a sanctuary. It was readily mutable, ideal for contingencies but she had never heard its use as a breach-ward. Hermione left the room quickly as she heard Crookshank’s yowl.

“That’s a cat!” Harry said in the kitchen, dead-heating Hermione there from the cellar. He was still in work robes albeit with sneakers beneath. “It’s Crookshanks.” He reminded Ron, who had been on the point of hexing the fluffy menace when he had suddenly heard a noise behind him. For his part, the half-kneazle sat by his cat door with his nose in the air.

Hermione stopped by the doorway clutching her stomach. Evidently running was another thing off her To Do list. Ron stared at her and lifted his arm to offer her the flowers looking as though he had been hit by a stunning curse. He was a good man to have at your back, Harry thought, but he really did have a one track mind.

“He left. Did not Apparate.” Hermione took a deep breath, ignoring the flowers. “He recalled himself with a sanctum spell. Someone must be helping him.” How the hell did he get through the wards? Judging from Harry’s expression, he was thinking the same thing. Judging from Ron’s expression, he was not thinking at all. “The flowers are very nice, Ronald. Why don't you give them to your mother? She's been very worried about you.”

“I did not mean it.” Ron forced the words out of his mouth, dropping his arm. “I was drunk. I didn't realise who I was talking to. I never meant to say those things.”

“But you did!” Hermione spat. She leant against the wall. Timing, again. “There must be a breach in the wards or a focus somewhere in the house that allowed him to open a conduit. I can't stay here.”

“I’m taking you to the Burrow.” Ron dropped the flowers, crossed the room and stopped at the point of Hermione’s wand.

“Stupefy.”


	16. Practical Magic

Harry regretted doing that as his friends slid quietly to the floor. But it had been a long day and he was not in the mood for another of their arguments. Hermione would not be going to the Burrow. She would not find it restful there however much Ron wanted to keep her where he thought she belonged. He was wrong. Flowers were not going to make up for this mistake. Harry rubbed his scar reflexively. When did he become the sensible one?

He took Hermione carefully home. He and Ginny were saving up for a house. Harry wanted a warm, welcoming place like the Burrow where he would never have to leave or hide or be shut away. But that took Galleons, so they rented a small flat in Exeter and flooed to work. He tucked her into the bed in the spare room while he returned to her house to convey Ron to the bosom of his family.

Molly was there, fretting. She took her son with an exclamation of worry and outrage but mellowed when Harry explained. He gave her the wildflowers, saying they were from Ron. He squared it with his conscience as he went back for Crookshanks. It was not like Hermione would have accepted the bouquet and she had suggested Molly.

Then he returned to his house, fell into bed and slept in his robes until his alarm went off at too early o'clock. He staggered into the tiny en suite to get ready for another long day. Finishing his shower, he caught the tail end of an wrathful shout from the hallway. Irritably he grabbed a towel and went to join in with the argument Hermione clearly thought they had to have.

“You Stupefied me!” She shrieked, eyes dark in a chalky face. “How could you be so bloody cavalier? I still have memory gaps! What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I've heard my best friends snipe at each other more than enough.” Harry snapped. “I was thinking that I should get you both to home so you could both get the rest you both damn well need!”

“I woke up in a strange bed with no memory of how I got there!” Hermione wailed, wanting to hit him so much it made her shake. “Again, Harry. Again! You can't do that to me! I need to have control of my life. I need to give fucking consent!”

There was nothing Harry could say to that. The lacuna grew as his best friend tried not to cry, scrubbing away her tears with clenched hands. Harry reached out to hug her but Hermione jerked away, storming back to the spare room to get her wand.

“And this thing doesn't bloody work!” She jabbed the offending bit of vine wood under his nose as though Harry was responsible for the malfunction. Hermione did a levitation charm to demonstrate. Every picture in the hallway flew off the wall.

Glass tinkled in the quiet aftermath. The witch and the wizard stared at the wand. Hermione handed it carefully to Harry, who took it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger.

“I'll take it to the Ministry and get it tested.”

“Harry, I...” Hermione seemed to deflate. Whatever spirit of rage that had propelled her now dissipated.

“I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey. She'll be able to give you a check-up on the quiet. If I take you to St Mungo's, everyone will know before elevenses.” Harry put a cautious hand on her arm. “I'm sorry, 'Mione. I didn't realise. We don't get a lot of sensitivity training. I just wanted you somewhere you'd be safe.”

Crookshanks, Crookshanks’s witch and Crookshanks’s witch’s friend went to Hogwarts. Harry had not planned to take the cat with him as he found it difficult to Apparate accurately with more than one person but Crookshanks had grafted himself to Hermione. There was no persuading him otherwise. Harry wished he could be as effortlessly smug as the flat-faced cat.

Classes were just finishing and the halls were crowded. He charmed them to look like students, Gryffindor of course, then helped Hermione to the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey was there and suspicious. She knew all the students by sight if not by name though sometimes she still thought of them as wide-eyed 1st years not the grown-ups they transfigured themselves into being. Harry dropped the charm to assuage her alarm.

“Harry Potter, I thought the days when you would stagger into my infirmary were over.” She said lightly, taking Hermione from him to tuck her into bed. The Healer thought he looked a little strained but that dreadful wound-up tension of his school years had left him. He was his own man and had finally managed to do something with his unruly hair.

“So did I.” Harry replied wryly. He cast a charm he thought of as the ‘Cone of Silence’ then explained what had happened. Until Ron had run his mouth off, they had managed to keep quiet the less salubrious aspects of the case. He had been most particular in the report he submitted to the Ministry, trying to spare Hermione’s reputation. There would be sniggering now. All those snobs laughing behind their hands. He could have throttled Ron. Ginny had been so upset she had Braxton Hicks, which had put him into a panic three weeks early.

Madam Pomfrey listened, and thought if anything would bring on a miscarriage this would. Sometimes she wished she could charm cotton wool around everyone so no one would get hurt. Then sit quietly with a cup of tea and this week’s Witch Weekly before Pomona got her hands on it and it forever smelled of compost. But she settled for patting Harry’s shoulder, assuring him Hermione was in good hands and sending him off to speak with Minerva.

“There, there, Ms Granger, everything is all right.” Madam Pomfrey used her brisk voice. Some children responded well to soothing, some to jollying but an efficient tone had always roused Hermione best.

“I thought I had been kidnapped again.” Once the adrenalin ebbed and she could relax back against the pillows, she was willing to concede it was a bit of a relief not to have woken in her own bed. Where the werewolf had been. She massaged her temples, feeling fuzzy but not too bad. 

A fluffy orange face rubbed itself against her chin. Crookshanks gave her a very flattering view of himself as he migrated down the bed, walking around her stomach to sit on her legs and purr like an engine. He was happy. Hermione did not know what she was, other than generically angry. She closed her eyes for a moment.

She opened them again with a start at the sound of Professor McGonagall’s raised voice. Had she dozed off in class? Hermione sat up and shook her head at herself. It was bad enough she’d nodded off but to think herself back in school was just too ridiculous. She could not have baby brain already. Headmistress McGonagall was presently lecturing Harry, and Auror Potter was not taking it well.

“She’s right, Harry. I can't stay here.” Hermione intruded. She could not say she had been thinking it over because she had been having a nap like her grandmother but she had to agree with the Headmistress. “I am a threat to the students. If he can get into my house, he might be able to get into Hogwarts. He’s been here before.”

Harry looked torn. Hogwarts was his sanctuary, his first real home. He had brought Hermione here confident she would be protected and McGonagall’s refusal to grant his request that his friend be allowed to stay had seemed callous.

“We are hardly turning Ms Ganger out into the street.” The Headmistress said with some asperity. “The Order retains ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place. It will be a suitable refuge until such a time as the Ministry has found Fenrir Greyback.” She looked primly at Harry, who wanted to baulk but could not. His dislike for his godfather’s home lingered in spite of its suitability.

“I’ll go directly there as soon as I have a word with Neville.” Hermione promised. He still looked mulish so she added. “Ginny is coming home from St Mungo’s tomorrow and I made a mess of your flat.”

Harry met her gaze and acceded with a nod. He wanted to protect her as much as Ron did, but he also recognised her ability to protect herself. “Owl me as soon as you get there.” He left without an apology to the Headmistress because he was not going to say sorry for trying to do the right thing. Harry did however give his former teacher a nod. The witches watched him leave with identical expressions of affectionate restraint.

“He still thinks it is his job to save the world.” Minerva observed, having not said half a dozen things to her former student, chief among them ‘my school, my rules’. His heart was in the right place but he was not the last best hope any more. Hermione nodded wearily.

“It’s force of habit.” She hid a yawn. “Though it’s worse now he’s a father.” Hermione pushed back the blanket displeasing Crookshanks immensely. She stood up, running a hand through her hair to untangle it. Perhaps she should just shave it all off to keep it from misbehaving. Although the other witch tried to hide it, she caught the Headmistress’s glance at her quite prominent bump. “I have another appointment with the gynaecologist in a couple of days and Neville's been working hard. I’m hoping for some good news.”


	17. Raking Old Coals

Good news was in short supply. Neville had begun with the Wolfsbane potion then paralleled development with the other more experimental potions. If the new recipes mixed at all with the Wolfsbane, a tried and reliable brew, then he would take them onto the next step.

“Which seems a seven-league stride at the moment.” Neville carefully washed his hands after removing his gloves. Most of the aconites were contact poisons. “There are over two hundred and fifty species in the Aconitum genus. If we get any sort of miscibility with the standard potion then we can tailor the species we use. We're running a silver absorption testing sequence too.” 

Hermione, who had on safety grounds not been allowed in the quarantine tent were the plants were being prepared or the reinforced alchemy lab were the potions were mixed, studied the preliminary report minutely. 

The careful entries made depressing reading. None of the Ministry approved coagulant charms worked with the Wolfsbane potion. That was not disastrous as she had planned to take the potion under medical supervision but it meant she would need a very competent Mediwitch in attendance. Or throw herself down a lot of stairs. That usually worked in the soap operas. If only life were so trite.

Two cauldrons melted through, and a host of noxious liquids. Nothing yet that looked remotely safe to ingest. Half of the materials the MIS had donated had been dismissed already, several after spectacularly violent reactions. That had proved useful in a sideways manner as it seemed likely to improve the efficacy of the Wolfsbane potion itself. She tried to remain positive but it was an uphill battle. 

“Is there anyone who could help you? I might be able to wangle something from my Department as an honorarium.” Hermione was not entirely comfortable with using her position to coax favours. It was too like the corruption of the old Ministry of Magic; nepotism and influence mongering. But you got nothing for nothing and very little for sixpence, as the saying went.

“Not anyone I'd care to ask.” Neville dried his hands on his sweater. “I've owled any Herbologist I know of who has published anything near this. The Journal Alchemica put me in contact with several contributors.” He stopped not wanting to dishearten his friend. “The only people who might know anything else about this would or should be in Azkaban.”

Hermione nodded, unsurprised. She put down the report without succumbing to the urge to fling it across the room. Tantrums were not helpful. Neville started to say something, hesitated then spoke with all the tact he had.

“You could have them cut out. Healing draughts, Blood-Replenishing potions, the Vulnera Sanentur spell, Dittany, well, there's a lot that can be done to repair that sort of wound.” The wizard suggested so he could tell himself he had suggested everything.

“It might come to that.” Hermione was not sure whether she would prefer a surgical removal then magical healing or to have the whole thing done by magic. “The problem is what happens next. Uterine damage is difficult to regenerate, and there is always something that isn't quite right afterwards. I don't want to cut off my nose to spite my face.”

Both had heard horror stories of pure-bloods trying absolutely anything to better their chances of offspring, to the point of obsession. Magic could heal and magic could aid conception and magic could end a life but the results were only as adept as the practitioner. And magic always had a price.

“Is there anything you need? I can pop by your place and water your garden.” Neville felt that was a feeble sort of offer but he could not do anything to assist in hunting the werewolf.

“You can't. The Aurors have cordoned it off until they find out how someone broke in.” Hermione gave him a watery smile and resisted the urge to sob into his sweater. It was past time she took herself off to Grimmauld Place. What a laugh riot that would be. “I don't suppose there's anything you know of that can breach wards?”

“Afraid not. I expect most of that stuff is either in Ministry hands or locked away in private vaults. I doubt anyone even a former Death Eater would help someone as mad as Greyback. Even during the war they avoided him.” He expected more than a few wizards would take the opportunity to settle the score with the werewolf if they chanced across him. A quiet, private vengeance for all the terror he had caused.

“He mentioned speaking to a Malfoy.” Lucius et al were too tempting targets so Hermione spoke lightly. She had given Harry a full report and she did not want to reignited a vendetta from their school days.

“There's no way they'd risk it. The Malfoys have been shunned. Turncoats twice over have no friends.” Again Neville was tactful. Narcissa may have saved Harry’s life but she had not been lauded for it. And he was quite okay with that. Seeing Draco's nose rubbed in his family's mess was satisfying.

“That's what I think. Most of the time. Then there are times I'm ready to hex everyone who's ever said anything nasty to me.” Hermione smiled and made her farewells.


	18. the Dragon's Grace

Kreacher could not have been described as ecstatic to see her. However his attitude had improved markedly since their first meeting. Very privately Hermione thought Sirius Black had done his godson no favours in his treatment of the house elf. A lot of trouble could have been avoided if he had been less of an arrogant jerk.

She got a warm bed and a quiet room. Hermione changed into a new nightie and tucked herself into the canopied bed after warding the room. It might be futile but she was not going to sleep without knowing she had done everything she could to protect herself. Her Ministry-issue temporary wand went under her pillow. She fell asleep quickly and did not dream.

In the morning, Hermione dragged herself downstairs to the breakfast room with the nagging feeling she had forgotten something. A Pepper-Up potion would have been nice except that it was off her list. No coffee either. She sat at the table while Kreacher fussed around her trying to think what she was missing. A knock on the door diverted the house elf and a cat’s meow had her jumping out of her chair.

“Crooks!” Hermione hurried out into the hallway. She scooped up her fluffy, neglected boy and cuddled him. He yowled plaintively having suffered a night in the Hogwarts kitchen with only mountains of food to sustain him. “I am so sorry, Crookshanks. Mummy will make it up to you, poor thing. Would you like some bacon?”

“That is disgustingly mawkish, Granger.” The arrogant drawl drew her attention to the wizard who had delivered her pet. For his part, the scion of the House of Malfoy was surprised how quickly she got her wand out with her arms full of overfed cat. Draco raised his hands placatingly. “I would make a pithy remark on your manners but this is not a social call.”

“Madam Pomfrey sent you.” It was not a question. Who else knew where she was and had any modicum of tolerance for the former Slytherin? The Healer had been shrewd in giving Malfoy Crookshanks to deliver. The half-kneazle would not have gone with him unless he had trusted his intentions and no foe would have come bearing her cat. Besides, Draco now had orange fur all over his night green waistcoat.

“Master Malfoy, please to be breakfasting in the morning room.” Kreacher invited unctuously and Draco followed him. Hermione bit her tongue. She was not going to scold the house elf and she was not going to make a scene. Setting Crookshanks down, she followed them to resume her seat at the table. There was a white cloth now and plates with the Black family crest as well as the sort of silverware one collects if often catering for fifty at dinner parties. There was a cruet set.

“Please feed Crookshanks, Kreacher.” Hermione requested, weathering the house elf’s scowl at being banished from the proximity of a true wizard. However, Kreacher went and Crookshanks followed him. Draco’s aristocratic face twisted into a smirk but it did not last. He had a carefully neutral expression when he looked at her, which must have rankled.

“Madam Pomfrey had tea with my mother yesterday.” He began, nothing in his tone to suggest the visit as anything extraordinary. “She mentioned you had been to see her. Of course, Potter has interviewed my father several times recently but has been very reticent about why.” His fingers drummed on the table, giving insight to the turmoil within. “We have not been able to find out more.”

“It is no fun being a pariah, is it, Malfoy?” Hermione remarked as Kreacher returned with a cold buffet, arraying it before the wizard but within the witch’s reach. He scuttled off to fetch more food. Draco glared at her, well aware how much his family had been shunned. It was still a shock to him.

“Poppy said you had reason to believe we were involved with the werewolf.” His eyes dropped pointedly to her stomach but whatever else he was going to say withered. He stared then looked away and adjusted his cutlery to cover his lapse. “That explains Potter’s interest in my father’s affairs.” Draco looked aside at her. “However you have levelled no charges.”

“Fenrir Greyback mentioned speaking to a Malfoy. He did not specify which one nor do I consider him a reliable witness.” Hermione replied blandly. If they were going to dance around the subject then she could waltz with the best of them. She helped herself to some toast. First day after this problem was solved she would eat a full English breakfast washed down with espresso. “There is also Polyjuice, which disguises scent as well as appearance.”

“Shouldn't you of all people leap at the chance to traduce my family, war hero?” He leashed his sneer just enough to be called polite. Draco sat back, pushing his plate away from him. He had no appetite.

“You never troubled yourself to get to know me, Malfoy, so how can you say that?” Hermione noticed how thin he was. He had always been lean but now his skin was taut over his cheekbones. “I won't kick a man when he’s down. Your father should be in Azkaban but being spurned by wizarding society is probably a crueller punishment to him.” She nibbled toast, cautiously optimistic about keeping it down this morning. “Eat something. Worrying yourself sick won't solve anything.”

“What would you know, Granger?” Draco snapped. 

Hermione laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair. It took her quite a while to recover her poise. A cramp in her side forced her to stop laughing. She had to take several deep breaths before she could talk. Draco looked thunderously offended and distrustful.

“You are the absolute limit.” She shook her head at him. “You are so sunk in your own world you just do not think, do you?” Hermione put her toast down and drank some pumpkin juice slowly to fend off hiccups. The pressure on her diaphragm from her womb made her irritatingly prone to them. “Of course I know would know nothing, Malfoy. Mudbloods have never suffered, have they?”

He had the decency to wince at the epithet he had so often used himself. Whether or not his opinions had changed, Hermione could not tell but she had got over her shame at the word. Rather like African-Americans and the ‘n’ word. It hurt less if you used it yourself.

“I don't know why I came.” Draco grated, crumpling his napkin. He was too proud to show weakness in front of a Muggle-born. There were cracks in his facade though. Hermione wondered if his parents knew he was here. She wagered not. Lucius would have broken his own wand before appealing for help from her.

“I do not know either but I’ll listen.” Hermione had written so many tearful letters home she had lost count. She had not sent them as she had not wanted her parents to worry but Malfoy had hurt her deeply when they were children. But that nonsense belonged in the schoolyard and she would not live in the past. Nor would she learn from him how to be a vindictive bully.

“It wasn't us.” He said forcefully. “My father barely leaves the estate now.” Draco heard himself and grimaced. He sounded pathetic. “He has never recovered from Azkaban. I think he was half-mad when he rejoined the Dark Lord.” His hand strayed to his forearm. “He just sits in his study staring at the walls. Mother is dealing with it better but she was never a fanatic.” His grey eyes met hers, storm dark and brooding. “We are an embarrassment.”

“It won't last.” Hermione was morosely certain of that. “We’ll change the rules and shake things up but it will all settle back down to how it always was. The wizarding world fears becoming mundane and wants to protect itself. It’s a siege mentality.” She idly picked at her chicken, tearing it into small shreds. “In a few years, the war will be statues and reminiscences. And the old families will tout their traditions again.”

“That is quite the most dour consolation I have heard.” Draco smirked at her. Hermione met his look and shrugged.

“Get out more, Malfoy. You see your world being washed away but the more things change, the more they stay the same.” She gave a small laugh. “That’s another reason why I didn't slap a suit against your family. I didn't think it would stick. Nailing Rita Skeeter to the wall is one thing but your father is Teflon.”

“Doesn't that go on cooking pots?” Draco eased himself back into his chair, relaxing just a little. He had been pleased to see the notice in the Daily Prophet of Skeeter’s dismissal. Too often lately had his name been on the receiving end of her poison pen. The phrase ‘and the Malfoys stayed home’ seemed to be a favourite of the beetle woman’s.

“Now you surprise me. Have you been watching television?” Hermione asked as though it was an exotic perversion.

“I do go into Muggle London, Granger. We have business interests.” He did not say any more but he did not need to explain. Converting pounds into Galleons was easy but the reverse was very difficult, as many of the Muggle-born witches and wizards discovered when they tried to escape. Most of the wealthy families made their money on the other side of the wall or had Muggle Trust Funds for emergencies.

“I can see you in a pinstripe suit.” She ate some fruit and wondered if she was dreaming. She appeared to be chatting with Malfoy. The same thought evidently occurred to him as he concentrated on filling his plate, not looking at her. 

Other than his mother, Granger was the only witch Draco had spoken to in months. Even Pansy had dropped him. The Parkinsons had been desperate for the Malfoy Galleons but there would be no marriage now regardless of the bride price. He ate slowly, minding his manners though he had suddenly found himself ravenous.

“May I ask you a personal question?” He assayed after he had devoured most of the collation. Hermione, her mouth full of toast, nodded. “What memory charm did you use on your parents?”

“A variant I developed myself.” She swallowed in surprise. It was not at all the question she had expected. “Obliviate is over used, a quick fix. I wanted to be able to undo everything I had done cleanly.” Hermione studied Draco for a moment as Kreacher entered and refilled their tray with hot offerings. Her mouth watered at the sight of the pastries. She took one then remarked. “Are you thinking of sending your parents Down Under?”

“No, to Canada. We have a hunting lodge there.” Draco tucked enthusiastically into bacon and eggs, making Hermione envious. “I need to do something. Father’s not far off being unable to bear the disgrace. I thought if I could give him a break just for a while he and Mother would be able to reconnect.” He stabbed his fork into an egg, watching the yolk run across his plate. “It’s like living with ghosts.”

“Have you thought about a magical disguise instead? Then your parents could go on short trips around the UK. That would be more relaxing for your mum than a big trip overseas. A recall suppression charm would ease your dad out of his depression.” Hermione thought about it. Throwing medication at the problem was not likely to work with a wizard. “When Hagrid came back, he said the worst thing was the fear he would never be happy again.”

“I could send them to Iceland.” Draco considered. “It’s not the UK but my parents honeymooned in Reykjavik. Mother said everyone was going to the Continent that year. She did not want to be a sheep.”

“My parents backpacked around Scandinavia before they got married. There are lots of hot springs. You could book them a spa holiday.” Hermione licked her fingers then wiped them on her napkin, having avoided the ranks of cutlery. Who needed three spoons for breakfast? She met Draco’s look as he shifted in his seat.

“Have lunch with me.” He asked, as surprised as she was at the request.


	19. Out on the Town

Thus it was that Hermione found herself in Madam Malkin’s buying what the proprietress called ‘lounging robes’. The loose almost weightless gowns were a significant improvement on what they had seen elsewhere. Current wizarding fashion ran to garish colours, reminding Hermione of the fluoro of her childhood. 

It had started after breakfast, she had remarked on her need to go shopping. Malfoy had said she should not go alone and while not precisely volunteering had hung around until she was ready to leave. They had ambled about and had sufficiently accepted each other’s company that Hermione took his hand without hesitation when Draco helped her down from the stool. Why Madam Malkin, who was shorter than Hermione, insisted her customers perch on footstools was a quandary.

“That should do for the time being.” She had only bought three robes as she intended to reuse them as casual wear. With luck, she would not need them as maternity dresses for very long. But unless she wanted to wear crop-tops and track pants as hipsters, she needed something. A bare midriff only worked for some and she had never been gifted with washboard abs.

“How about shoes?” Draco suggested, holding himself very upright as several of Malkin’s customers whispered behind them. Madam was very professional and had not even blinked at their arrival but she had been the only one not to gossip. “Mother said her ankles swelled so much she was reduced to wearing house slippers everywhere.”

“You've some odd conversations with your mother.” Hermione meant it only as a casual remark as she paid the bill. Draco took the bag peremptorily because they had not yet sorted that dispute. After she had overbalanced and nearly fallen on slick tiles, he had taken charge of the shopping. About half of it was his, he had a weakness for accessories, but he refused to allow her to carry anything. Everything shrank into a single bag and he would not hear any protests.

“All part of the ‘When You Fulfil Your Obligations’ lecture series.” His expressive mouth curled into a half-smile. Hermione laughed and thanked Madam Malkin, walking out of the shop with head held high. Various whispering campaigns at Hogwarts had trained her not to cringe but it was still no fun.

“At least you were spared the ‘What Nice Girls Do Not Do’ discussion panel.” She looked up at him, thinking he looked much better when he was not trying to be handsome or sneering. Draco rolled his eyes in sympathy. It was worse for only children, he was sure and of course she would know that too.

They turned towards Springheels for shoes when a camera flash brought them up short. Hermione jumped back in surprise and Draco caught her arm to steady her because as much as she did not want to think about it her balance was off. They glared at the photographer who ducked behind a dark haired witch wearing the latest fashion in mugglesque robes. She flourished a quill and spoke fast.

“Just a few questions.” She said so quickly it was all one word. “Will you put to rest the speculation about your enforced seclusion, Ms Granger? Can you confirm allegations there is a secret Ministry taskforce detailed to your personal protection?” A sly look crossed the reporter’s pretty face. “Any comment on your former husband’s tell-all article? Are the werewolf rumours true?”

Draco still had his hand around Hermione’s arm and felt her tense. She was not far off cursing the bold witch with something that would offend. He leapt into the breach for no reason other than he was tired of hiding and he had been enjoying himself until the mouthy cow interrupted.

“Weasley has called me many things during our acquaintance but a lycanthrope is a new slander.” He put his arm around Hermione to keep her from interrupting as he ran with whatever popped into his head. “He’s a sore loser who can't accept Hermione is happy with someone else.” Draco gave the reporter his most devastating smile and kept talking. The rush was better than Quidditch. “She and I had hoped to keep our personal lives out of the papers until after the divorce. We will not be granting any interviews.”

With all the hauteur of his lineage, Draco Malfoy escorted Hermione Granger past the reporter and through the crowd into Gringotts. He had no business in the goblin bank but it was the nearest refuge. Draco guided them into a private office, used for customers pleading about their overdrafts, and let out his breath.

“You are going to need a troll to dig yourself out of that hole!” Hermione shook her head disbelievingly. “What possessed you to say all that?” She felt faint and sat down on one of the infamously uncomfortable chairs. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Every word.” Draco tried to keep the grin off his face. He had been so careful, so watchful since the Dark Lord’s death, minding his tongue closely for fear of making the unbearable worse. Meekness did not come naturally to him. Now he shed discretion like an old skin. “I need to get my parents out of the country fast.”

“You need to emigrate!” Whole battalions of wizards would be out for his blood at the hint of a suggestion they had an affair. “You’ve painted a big red target on yourself if Fenrir Greyback finds out. Need I emphasise the dangers of enraged werewolves? I have extensive notes on the subject if you wish a refresher!”

“Think about this rationally for a moment.” He aired his best smile again but was not surprised when it did not work. She was not going to melt at the knees for him. Draco smoothed his hair, in awe of his own brilliance. Slytherin Forever. “This is the perfect strategy.”

“Alright then, convince me.” Hermione said, ready to debate.

“I admit the situation is not ideal.” Draco was a logical man and began at the beginning. “But we cannot have everything our own way.” He caught Hermione’s sceptical eyebrow. “However much we might have thought so as children.” He conceded. “The tactic of keeping one’s mouth shut has been foiled by Weasley. The wizarding world runs on gossip and gossip will eat anything so we must feed it.”

“I was trying for the mushroom treatment.” She observed then clarified at his puzzled glance. “Keep it in the dark and feed it on shit.”

“My word, Granger, you are alluring when you’re vulgar.” Draco snickered. “But to continue, we offer the rumour mills the chaff of our choosing and thus have some control over their drivel.” His tone hardened. “As much as anyone can without throttling editors.” That strategy had grown in appeal as he had read again and again how his family were the source of all evil because they were seen to have somehow got away with it. “Your rabid solicitor will assist there.”

“I like Ms Meach.” Hermione defended her counsel.

“So do I. From a distance and well armoured.” He smirked. “However curbing the papers is only one aspect.” Draco regarded her for a moment and picked his words carefully. “There are many who will think it your just desserts to be in the condition you are in now. I dare say that was why Potter was so evasive in his explanation for why he was harassing my father.”

“I know I am not the most popular person in England.” She worked hard and risked herself and made sacrifices but she did not have the knack with people to make herself popular. Respected, yes. The same way Headmistress McGonagall was esteemed. A worthy example but not someone you invited to dinner parties. Hermione did not mind, much. She did not like large crowds or shallow conversations but she was tired of being a stereotype.

“You have more social cachet than you think. You just need to use it.” Draco adjusted his cuffs, getting down to business. “Distancing yourself from the werewolf rumour is vital. That sort of stigma is very difficult to shake once it becomes entrenched. It is one of the great fears of our society; the loss of control, the weakness, the madness. It ties in with our thinning blood. That’s why Greyback was so effective a terror weapon. Just the threat could break people.”

“Fear is a very effective persuader.” Hermione remembered Xeno Lovegood rattling around in his house when Luna had been kidnapped. He had been willing to do anything, out of fear. Neither of them spoke for a while, lost in the past. It was Draco who rediscovered his voice first. He found the sound of it reassuring.

“If Weasley had not spilled his innards like an overripe pumpkin, you could have pretended the pregnancy resulted from a failed attempt at reconciliation.” He had done some despicable things in his youth but he had never kissed and told. “You need a willing wizard. Potter is out, I understand he just inflicted another of his progeny on the world. The other Weasleys won't side against their brother.” Draco thought they were not much of a loss. “You might persuade Longbottom. He always did what you told him in school but he can't be relied upon to lie.”

“Which you can.” Hermione interjected. He shrugged.

“A survival trait.” Draco regarded her critically. “You know I am speaking sense. Most of our peers have paired off or cannot be depended upon to uphold this charade. We need not paint the town red but we will have to show ourselves together occasionally.”

“I begin to see what you're getting out of this.” Although she was not a natural schemer that did not mean she could not give Machiavelli a run for his florins. “You hope to ride my coattails out of the mire. You think if we’re seen arm in arm you’ll be able to rebuild your reputation.” Hermione gave him the benefit of the doubt and believed he had not started the day with this plan. However Draco was certainly willing to pimp the opportunity for all it was worth.

“I could plead altruism. I could plead penance. But I doubt you would believe either.” He gave her a devil’s smile. “I loathe the werewolf. He frightened me as a child and that is not something I can forgive. So part of this is cleaning the mud off my name. Part is sticking two fingers up at Greyback.” Draco kept the third reason to himself. He was not proud of it.

“I'm hopeful. Perhaps desperate is a better word.” Hermione amended. “Have you thought about what happens if I run out of options? Much after my seventh month and I might as well carry to term.” She surprised herself by being able to say that without feeling ill. “Then this brilliant plan of yours becomes much more complicated.”

“That is assuming I do not play the dastard and refuse to acknowledge the bastards.” Draco was willing to do much to forward this ploy. Adopting Greyback’s get was not part of the plan. “If it comes to that, we state you are a thoroughly modern witch and need no man to support her then quietly air my parents’ objections to the match.” He clasped a hand theatrically over his heart. “With sufficient elan we can play out a star-crossed romance.”

“You’ve missed your calling. You should be on the stage.” She held up a hand to forestall any further grand plans. “We’ll run with this for a while. Other than giving Ron an aneurysm it’s not likely to make anything worse.” Hermione sighed. “You are going to need to stock up on silver like you’re trying to corner the market.”

“My lady, you worry for me.” Draco made another dramatic gesture, back of hand to forehead then smirked again. He really did look like a ferret when he did that, Hermione thought uncharitably. “I’ll be ready for him.” He offered her his arm in an old fashioned gesture. “Shall we?” His lips curled, turning his smirk into a smile. “I need to find a travel agent in a hurry.”

Hermione nodded off while Draco made arrangements for his parents’ surprise trip. He was confident Narcissa would embrace the chance to get away for a while. She had previously suggested a holiday but Lucius had refused, too sunk in melancholy to do anything. That would hopefully change with the memory charm and leave Malfoy junior to manipulate unencumbered by his father’s presence.

Draco looked down at the Muggle-born witch as she dozed. She was wearing a blouse and slacks, explaining that she had bought a few things in Muggle London after leaving everything at her house for investigation. The clothing did not suit her, the shirt riding up to show the curve of her stomach. The third reason he was helping her reared itself and he scowled.

There were ways around it of course. Nothing in the wizarding world was immutable. The old prejudices were still there but this was a time of opportunity where a bold wizard could make his mark. He would be a fool to give up this chance. Did he have the nerve to grasp the nettle? All those trite phrases hammered at him. Draco was uncertain. So he woke her and escorted her back to the Black home, suitably disguised.

Potter was waiting there for them. Malfoy made sure he got a good look at him with his arm around Granger. The gesture was no more than steadying her over the steep lintel, nothing of significance, but he held the witch a little too long just to pay the Auror back for his harassment. Then he disengaged and began pulling her shopping out of his bag. The sound of Potter’s teeth grinding was quite audible.

“Have you found anything?” Hermione asked as soon as she saw Harry. His face was grim. He shook his head tersely.

“Not yet. I brought you some things.” Harry held up a suitcase. She went to him, gave him a one-armed hug because her stomach got in the way and took the case. Hermione caught his expression and sighed.

“You’re tired. I know you've a lot to do. Thanks for the stuff.” She gave him an excuse to go. Harry stood his ground, grudge beating sleep deprivation hands down.

“Hello, Malfoy.” He said crisply. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“No, Harry.” Hermione intruded before her friend got up to speed in his interrogation. “Just no.” 

Draco took his moment, gave her a parting smile and slipped out the door before Potter could arrest him for ‘existence likely to cause a breach of the peace’. Discretion was definitely the better part of valour for a Slytherin. Harry levelled a severe look at Hermione.

“Angelina saw you and Malfoy in Diagon Alley. She told George. George told Molly. Molly told Ginny and Ginny told me.” He let his breath out. “Now I’d like you to tell me why.”

“You’ve got to love the Weasley grapevine.” Hermione supposed she should not be surprised with that bloody joke shop reopened in the Alley. The various Wheezes had never given her so much as a titter. She did not like practical jokes and her life was beginning to feel like one. “There’s no why about it. He was lonely and I was bored and we both just wanted to think about other things for a while.”

“I don't trust him.” Harry did not want to badger her. He was not the only one looking tired. He had instantly assumed the worst when Ginny told him what her sister-in-law had seen. Then his Auror training kicked in. Malfoy had not been behaving suspiciously during Hermione’s abduction and if he wanted to hurt her, he would not be shopping with her in sight of half the witches in England.

“We don't know him.” Hermione responded judiciously, gathering her shopping. “We knew a boy we didn't like a school.” She headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable. Harry followed her, not willing to leave it at that.

“He’s still a slimy bastard.” He held the bedroom door open for Hermione then sat down on the bed. “Ginny said Angelina saw him talking to a reporter. Care to share?” He kept his eyes on the ceiling as she changed. After their seventh year there was no shame between them but he was not going to look at a naked witch who was not his wife. “He’s up to something.”

Hermione told Harry all about the Cunning Plan as she slid into a lounging robe. It felt lovely, drifting about her like a soft breeze. She had bought robes in ash green, slate blue and dove grey. Useful neutralised colours that would coordinate with her existing wardrobe and look good on a hazel-eyed brunette, helping to ameliorate the fact she was essentially wearing a muumuu.

Harry listened then put an arm around her when she sat down beside him. “It might work.” He conceded reluctantly. “You have to do something. It was bad enough for Remus and he was afflicted not born with the curse. Teddy is going to cop some of that crap too.” He kicked the bed and swore. “Malfoy’s using you.”

“I know. And I told him I know.” Hermione patted his hand on her shoulder. “But Madam Pomfrey trusts him, which should be endorsement enough for anyone. I believed Draco when he said he wants to settle a score with the werewolf.”

“Draco, is it?” Harry teased. She pushed him playfully off the bed. “Alright then, we’ll do this thing. It’s not as though we’re risking anyone we like. Ginny is going to laugh herself hoarse.” He looked at her seriously. “Ron is going to be ropeable. He’s already sent me a parliament of owls demanding to know where you are.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Hermione asked flatly. Harry shook his head. Ron had done enough damage already. “I’m not doing this to get back at him.” She smirked. “But I’ll quietly gloat as he suffers.” With a shrug, she added. “So home and give my best to Ginny.”

“See you later, Mrs Malfoy.” Harry grinned and Apparated before she could lob a pillow at him.


	20. Someone Else's Sorrow

What Hermione remembered most afterwards was the careful way Dr Kapur answered her questions. She had not mentioned to the doctor the circumstances of the beginning of her pregnancy, just that it was unexpected. Evidently she had given away more than she thought to the experienced physician.

She and Louise had been in the consulting room after another ultrasound when Hermione asked. There had been a distinct pause before Dr Kapur explained about potential placenta accreta and more Latin phrases that the witch automatically tried to decipher into spells. The words were not magic. And they definitely were not good news.

Later when Louise had a latte in a nearby cafe because she was too shattered to drive yet, Hermione thought about the doctor’s parting phrase. She had said ‘mother nature is sometimes mysterious’. It was incongruous that Dr Kapur had advised what Madam Pomfrey had advocated almost six weeks before. If she ever met Mother Nature, Hermione was going to bitch slap the interfering cow.

Imagining that helped shake her out of her shock. There was still hope. Dr Kapur had been careful to clarify her test results were normal and had mentioned many options, even adoption. Hermione was proud of herself that she had not broken down into hysterical laughter. She wrote down the date of the next appointment instead and had walked in silence with her mother to get something to drink.

She looked down at her milky hot chocolate. Everything rested on Neville now. He would be thrilled. Hermione looked up when Louise shakily put down her drink, the cup rattling in the saucer. She pulled herself together for the sake of her mother. She had always been better at dealing with other people’s problems than her own.

“It is alright, mum. We’ll just continue on being sensible about this.” The witch managed a smile. Louise bit her trembling lip and just as her daughter had, collected herself to help another. Hermione was unaware she was as white as a sheet.

Together they got themselves home, first to Grimmauld Place and then to the comfortable semi-detached next to the Granger Family Dental Practise. Hermione went upstairs to bed then cried herself sick. Louise did much the same but without a house elf fidgeting at her bedside. They both slept. Mrs Granger was woken by her husband when he came home from work.

Hermione was woken later by Kreacher inquiring whether she wished to receive a visitor. She blinked at him and glanced out the window. Streetlights twinkled. Pushing herself to her feet, she gave the house elf an affirmative then went to the bathroom to make herself presentable. A little wandwork, a visit to the facilities and she was fit to entertain. Tra la bloody la, she thought as she headed downstairs.

It was Malfoy. In evening wear looking like a crested penguin. That was uncharitable. He was actually quite well-dressed just incongruous in the Black family sitting room in Muggle clothes. When she said nothing as she subsided into an armchair, his face hardened.

“Do I look that bad?” He sounded almost defensive. Shorn of his old arrogance, Draco was much less sure of himself though he fought hard to hide it. He had been pampered terribly as a child Hermione ruminated. His mother probably still cosseted him but now the world was much less willing to indulge him. He likely realised how good he’d had it now that the parade was over.

“You look fine. Why the tuxedo, I do not know. Are you going to the Opera?” She asked idly. There could be any number of black tie events in London. It was Friday night after all. But a wizarding event would have dress robes.

“We are going out to dinner.” Draco said firmly then seeing her blank expression explained. “We have not socialised much and I thought rather than fall off the broomstick in the public eye we could try a quiet meal in London first.” He smirked. “That way if we start screaming at each other we can Obliviate everyone and try again.”

“Where have you made reservations?” Hermione asked unwillingly. If he had made the effort and presumably the expense to book somewhere nice enough to require a penguin suit then she should at least ask. Malfoy looked at her as though she was speaking Swahili. “Did you expect to swan in and get a table with a flick of your wand?”

“That was my intention, yes.” Draco answered guardedly. He had put a lot of thought into this gambit and did not want to it fall apart at the start. Granger was not going to be swept along by his charm so he appealed to her brains instead. “How else are we going to get into a suitable restaurant on short notice? Are you suggesting bribery?”

“I am suggesting we do not go posh.” She waved a hand at him. “Hello, this is the middle class talking. A quiet dinner does not require black tie.” Hermione had half a mind to crawl back into bed. You’ll be letting the side down, said a voice in her head eerily like McGonagall’s. Malfoy’s idea was not bad and it had clearly taken some nerve not least because he had not asked her out. Plus she was craving garlic bread. “There’s a nice Italian place down the road. Lose the tie.”

“I suppose we do not have to dine fashionably to dine well.” He recognised he was in foreign territory. Malfoys always dressed for dinner even for family meals at home. Draco matched his concession with a demand, intent on seeing how far she would play along. “You can dress me down if I can dress you up. Call it a trust exercise.”

“Have you been swotting up on psychology texts?” Hermione nearly laughed, jollying herself out of her misery with the image of Malfoy on a shrink’s couch talking about his Oedipal urges. She was never going to say it but he had been such a mamma’s boy.

“You’re not the only one who can read, Granger.” Draco retorted. He transfigured his smirk into a smug smile. “A simple transfiguration is all it is. Nothing risqué.” Half his luck. But if they were going to do this, he did not want any sideways looks from her. He was sick to the brim of those chary glances from everyone as though they expected him to whip off his cloak and reveal himself as Voldemort reborn. So, he meant to prove his trustworthiness now. “If you are too shy, we will forget it.”

“I am not shy!” She protested, sounding about four years old to her ears. Did she trust him or not? And she would have her wand in her hand so the first sign of anything suspect and he would be stunned back to the snake pit. “Very well.” Hermione stood up. She had warded herself against disarming charms before leaving the house that morning. “You may go first.”

Draco took full advantage of the chance to study her. He had caught himself glancing at her while they were shopping like some horny schoolboy. There would be none of that. The third reason he was helping her, because she looked delicious, would be acknowledged then shoved back into the subconscious where it belonged. It was just a lingering vision from pagan goddess worship anyway. He took himself firmly in hand before he had to take himself in both hands.

A v-necked jersey dress in dark green was an elegant and simple choice. The fabric slid across her body, making the most of her curves but not so much it looked cheap. He put her hair up into an elegant bun. Draco had never liked her hair. At Hogwarts it looked like it was ready to leap off and seek its fortune. He turned her slippers to black Louis heels and decided she would not shame him standing beside him.

Hermione was more interested in his choices than the result. She studied herself in the mirror above the mantle. Her skirt was just above her knee not the floor length she had expected from someone weaned on dinner parties. Ditto the neckline, which hinted at a lot but showed little. He had been looking at her. That much was obvious. What was also interesting from an inner-thought perspective was how little he had tried to conceal her bump.

“Always with the green.” She said, smiling and not airing her contemplation of his motives. He could be trying to flatter her. He could find her attractive. He could simply have a good eye for what suited a woman. Narcissa was a clothes horse according to rumour. What witch was not, with a new wardrobe just a wand wave away? It was interesting whatever the reason.

Hermione simply changed the tuxedo to a grey suit because black was very harsh on the fair-haired, turned his stark white shirt to pewter and got rid of the bow tie. She had never got over being traumatised by Bozo the Clown at her sixth birthday party. He had put his enormous polka-dot bow tie on her head and everyone had laughed at her. Ah, the treasured memories of childhood.

“Not red, I see.” Draco commented, inspecting himself. In grey, there was nothing to compete with his Pre-Raphaelite colouring. His eyes glowed silver in his pale face. Evidently Granger noticed him more than his clothes. “Granted I am much better looking than Weasley, but if you can manage this with me why did he always look like he’d dressed in the dark?”

“Ron never let me choose his clothes. He refused to go shopping with me.” That had not been a sore point then. Hermione was not interested in fashion beyond looking smart. She had been accused of bossiness so often she just let him have his way. Then he sulked that she was not paying attention to him and began the cycle anew. “Any comment I made was a criticism to him.”

“You should have left him to Lavender.” He dismissed the topic and Weasley. He did not want to talk about her ex-husband all night. This dinner was to find something they could discuss politely in public. Draco offered Hermione his arm. Remember her first name. It’s Shakespearean. That was a good conversation opener. “Have you read a Winter’s Tale?”


	21. Have and Have Not

They went from Shakespeare to Milton to Renaissance art to France. They had both been to the Auvergne and reminisced in French. Far from having nothing to talk about, conversation took them through from antipasto to zabaglione. It seemed no time at all before Hermione sat back to watch Draco do the complex mental arithmetic to convert pounds into Galleons. She had offered to pay her share but he had refused as he had invited her out

They had quite a nice red wine, well he had a nice red and Hermione had mineral water, and a respectable meal for what he thought of as a paltry sum. He had considered continuing the evening with a show or even a plebeian movie but Draco could see she was flagging a little and did not want to push his luck. It had been enjoyable.

And no one had looked at them or whispered. An older couple at a table nearby had smiled when he had held out a chair for Hermione and they had got a quick nod from a waiter when he gestured for the bill. That was all. A lovely change from the last time he had dined out. It had been so bad he left after waiting half an hour for a waiter in a nearly empty restaurant. They ambled out into the warm night and Draco spoke.

“Do you want an apology for Hogwarts?” He studied the streetlights as he debated with himself. Clearing the air by saying sorry would advance his cause but he loathed grovelling. The only people he had ever apologised to were his parents and Severus, sincerely anyway. Every time Potter looked at him Draco got the impression he was waiting for a mea culpa. That would not happen. He regretted nothing except where his choices had got him.

“I do not.” Hermione contemplated him contemplating the landscape. He looked very Teutonic, a knight girded for battle. “I don't need a grand gesture of reconciliation. You were hardly the only one and you’ve paid. You didn't go back for your seventh year.”

“Here I stand ready to fall on my sword and the greatest punishment you cite is missing my last year of school.” Draco was tempted to mock her further but stopped himself. Old habits died hard. If he could not remake himself how did he expect to revive his family? “I had always thought your preoccupation with schoolwork to be a way of boasting but you honestly value education beyond all things, don't you?”

Hermione could have snapped back with a snide comment. She had learned to meet his jibes with jibes. Ron and Harry still did. It was like flicking a switch; on came the spite. She had caught herself doing the same. It did them no compliment and bred more resentment.

“My grandparents were working class. My dad’s dad died on Sword Beach at Normandy and my mum’s dad died in a mining accident in the fifties.” Hermione did not often talk about her family to wizards or other witches. She was expected to nod and smile when they talked about their kin though. Here is your soapbox, she nudged herself. “Both my grandmothers worked hard to give their kids a better life. A good education was their way out. My parents taught me to always do my best, regardless of what other people said.”

“You are proud of them.” He said before he could edit himself. Draco realised a little too late how condescending he sounded. He had never thought about Muggles as worthy of praise. They had to exist, which was where his politics began to differ from his father’s, but they existed somewhere ‘over there’ discretely out of sight. Like servants or unreliable pets.

“Of course.” Hermione looked him in the eye and very consciously did not lecture. “They are where I come from. I am not going to hide them just because I am a witch. I will not tidy up my family tree for inspection, not talking about relatives that are not good enough for my social circle.” She shook her head, thinking of Molly’s second cousin the accountant. “It is a pity my parents have to lie at reunions but advanced courses at a Scottish private school is close enough.”

“I have never really thought about it.” Draco admitted. Everyone went to Hogwarts. Everyone thought as he did. If they did not, there was something wrong with them. He met her eyes, braced for a sermon but she just nodded. That made him frown. Not because he was insulted but because she so obviously understood something that puzzled him. If only... 

She was smart and an intense witch and proud. She could hold her tongue and hold her ground. She did not simper or fawn. And she was fertile. Many faults in Malfoy brides had been forgiven for the sake of an heir. Her family would not crook their fingers into his wealth. Her family of dentists. He shook his head. “I’ll walk you home.”

He escorted her back to Grimmauld Place, saw her safely inside then Apparated away without another word. Leaving Hermione standing in the hallway smiling at the door. That had been nice. She took herself to bed still smiling. She noted without surprise that in the Black Mansion, with its long galleries of bedrooms, Crookshanks had naturally colonised hers. He meowed to her as he stretched then settled back into the centre of the bed.

“You are going to have to move, Crooks.” She chuckled at him and because there was no one else to see, Hermione preened in front of the ornate standing mirror. Her hair was making a bid for freedom from the bun but otherwise she looked pretty damn good. Have to remember the cut of the dress for later impromptu events. Her fingers smoothed over the fabric, over her breasts and down. Over her belly. She pulled her hands away sharply.

No. It was her stomach. Part of her she would not be ashamed of whatever the situation. She had done nothing wrong. Hermione resolutely touched her bump. Pretending it did not exist was not a good strategy. If Neville did not come to her rescue she was going to cut herself open. Or get bigger and bigger. Before she brought three werewolves into the world.

The thought shook her. Yet she would have to face it as a possibility. Time was passing and she had said herself once she was into her third trimester the choice was largely moot. Hermione knew she was strong enough to have an abortion. It was not a choice lightly made but she would have done it. 

Could she mutilate herself just to be rid of an unwanted pregnancy? Could she choose to persist with it? And if she opted to continue then found she couldn't bear it? She was due two weeks before Yule and the spectre of infanticide rose like the ghost of Christmas Past.

It would be a lot easier if she were religious. She could put all of this tumult in God’s hands and let herself be blown along by the divine wind. Kamikaze drifted into her thoughts. That word meant divine wind. Was she getting her theology mixed up with Elizabethan history? He blew with His winds, and they were scattered...

The defeat of the Spanish Armada was not going to help her. Hermione undressed without looking at herself and got ready for bed. When she climbed under the covers, Crookshanks graciously moved over for her, settling himself behind her knees. She dropped off quickly but dreamed weirdly and woke with a start late in the morning.

With an inarticulate cry of outrage she dragged herself out of bed. The vacation was over. She was going to get some work done. No more wringing her hands. Hermione had a long shower while she made mental lists then dried herself with a charm because twisting around to towel herself off made her lose her balance. She tied back her hair with the diligence of a samurai caparisoning for war. No mangy dog-botherer was going to beat her.

Kreacher was poised for breakfast and metaphorically hovering again. Hermione had brought a scroll and quill with her as her PDA did not work. There were too many clumsily meshed layers of wards in the house. The tangle could be undone but it was not her home to interfere with nor was fiddling with the defences right now a sound idea.

“Here is a list of errands, if you would be so good.” Hermione jotted down a few more tasks, all within the purview of a house elf, then handed it to Kreacher. He made a face. Not at her requests but at her courtesy. He went however leaving her to eat breakfast in peace. She tapped the end of the borrowed wand idly on the table, thinking.

Someone had tampered with her wand. Or she had missed Fenrir at point blank range. He had not paused to shake off the Unforgiveable, she was certain of that. Hermione mulled it over. She had wanted that spell, had committed to it. Whatever had happened, had to been from her lack of focus. 

Her wand had been out of her hands for weeks, more than long enough for someone to fiddle with it. Basingly had said the team had found it at Hutchins farm but not when. Ryan might just have been able to cast diagnostic charms but altering with a wand was definitely out of his league. So he was working with someone.

That was less of a revelation than it sounded. He was working with Fenrir Greyback. Someone else had to be involved. No one had informed her yet of the progress of inquiries, something she meant to change. Hermione summoned more parchment. She missed her laptop already. Stuff this for a joke. She would go to the MIS Department and get some real research done. Even if the sodding werewolf could find her there, he’d be swimming in serum 42 before he could plead for floaties.

Hermione left a note for Kreacher then left for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a companion fic from Draco's point of view set just after this chapter titled 'Have and Have Not'.


	22. Scrollwork and Spadework

Everyone was overjoyed to see her. Perhaps Basingly had not overstated the low morale. Hermione organised a quick staff meeting to give some reassurances. The majority of the Department were Muggle-born and still easily alarmed. Voldemort cast a long shadow. So the meeting developed into a prolonged question-and-answer session before Ms Harsh Taskmistress reminded everyone there was no point worrying about their jobs if they did not do them.

Basingly waited until the meeting dispersed before signalling he wanted a word. Hermione took him aside into her office so she could put her feet up. She could tell at a glance someone had been through her drawers, for which the Acting Lead Researcher apologised. She had short-term protocols in place for her hospitalisation since she had been supervising the fieldwork teams personally but nothing long-term. Barring Unforgivables, with magical healing you either recovered or died quickly.

“I have the duty reports, the revised rosters, the field results and the laboratory results.” Basingly stacked the scrolls in her in-box as he named them. The Department was gradually weaning itself into paper for paperwork, which meant she did not need an in-bucket for daily correspondence. “The requisitions backlog, the internal reports, the personal reports for the Minister, the expense accounts you need to countersign and the Quidditch pool.” He held up his empty hands with a smile. “Welcome back, Ms Granger.”

“Not as bad as I expected.” Hermione surveyed the sheaf of reports, leafing through one with a grimace. “Tristan’s handwriting is shocking. We've got to get him a typewriter.” Mechanical devices fared better than electronic in magical fields and the Ministry was less resistant to older technology. She had bought her laptop at her own expense to avoid months of delays in requisitioning one.

“I’ve been handling leave informally as rostered out on non-specific duties.” Basingly explained, speaking as though he was confessing to a venal sin. The Jorkins Rules had been put into place during the blame game after the war. No more disappearing Ministry employees. No one could duck out for a half-day without authorised forms from their Department head in triplicate now. “Cauldwell’s wife died two weeks ago. I signed him out on liaison duties with the Department for the Regulation of the Importation of Non-Contraband Suspect Items. They drown in parchment over there. Wittstein is covering for him.”

“I’ll get the leave forms done right away.” She nodded. Owen Cauldwell had spoken to her what seemed like ages ago about his wife’s diagnosis. St Mungo’s could do only so much for inherited diseases. The pure-blood families did not like to advertise their ailments. Fortunata Cauldwell nee Avery had been younger than she was. Hermione sighed. “Cauldwell’s got kids. I’ll see what I can do about an extended leave of absence.”

“We’re pushed but I’m sure Wittstein will be happy to keep double-duty. She was with Mrs Cauldwell in Beauxbatons.” Basingly, an old hand at dealing with Ministry regulations, had been prepared to juggle rotas indefinitely. “Our request for more personnel is sitting in someone’s pending heap somewhere. We need you to rattle a few cages.”

“Believe me, there will be much ado.” Hermione regarded the wizard speculatively. He knew people who knew people. His family were just pure-blood enough to pass muster in the Bad Old Days, though Basingly had got top marks in Muggle Studies. “Any news on the grapevine?”

“Everyone is walking around as though they’ve been Silenced but there’s a whisper Aurors have the werewolf cornered in the Orkneys.” He did not have to specify which werewolf. They both knew who was Most Wanted. “Shetland team was ordered out of the field very tersely. McDougall is spitting mad. They had to break off trace on three lycanthropes because the Aurors did not want anyone in the way.”

“I’ll get on that too. I do not want us kept in the dark.” Hermione said ‘us’ and meant ‘us’. She was responsible for the Department and did not want her field personnel endangered because of the Law Enforcement’s Do not Need to Know policy. If she had to, she would shakedown Harry until he told her.

“It is about keeping people in the dark I particularly wanted to talk to you.” Basingly glanced towards the door and spoke to it as he continued. “The Prophet has been going completely mad, pestering staff for interviews. We’ve had owls from L’Oracle and the Salem Gazette wanting statements.” His expression showed clearly what he thought of Freedom of the Press. “The gossip has been flying thick and fast.” He sighed. “I’ve kept quiet everything I can but this Malfoy business is too much.”

“The Malfoy business is the official line.” She was not sure whether she was telling or heartening him. “If anyone asks, the Department does not comment on the private lives of employees. We should still have copies of that press release we did for the nonsense when we hired Nemesia Lestrange.” Hermione had personally reviewed Lestrange’s file and spoken to Madame Maxime and still had to dodge the flak. “Unofficially, because I know it will get out, I am having a torrid affair with Draco.”

“Torrid, I see.” Basingly suspending his course in Advanced Portal Study to regard her blandly. “A fiery passion to sear the soul, no doubt.” He smothered a laugh. “There will be Hell to pay but I’ll back you to the hilt.” His eyes dropped briefly to her stomach. “I presume paternity is also part of the story.”

“For as long as it is convenient, yes.” Hermione did not feel she needed to explain anything to Basingly, and when he merely nodded her respect for him grew. He got the job done. No fiddling about. “It was Mr Malfoy’s idea otherwise I would have prepped you. We needed to do something.”

“Well, Ms Granger.” Basingly smiled. “You’ve certainly done it.”

Hermione excavated her way diligently through the slag heap of reports. Their research was so innovative they had to document everything. She realised she was a bit of a harpy on that subject but after wading through Impediments and its ilk, she knew she was right to nitpick. Sandwiches were brought to her at intervals by Basingly who pointedly waited until she ate them. 

Other than an annoying need to go to the bathroom every hour on the hour, Hermione felt good. Getting back to work was just what she needed. She got the leave forms sorted and the expense accounts initialled with a few queries, and was half way through the requisitions when there was a cough from the doorway.

“It’s Saturday, Hermione.” Draco said with the astonishment of the wealthy and underemployed. “Isn't it supposed to be a half-day for the labouring masses?” He leant photogenically against the door like a blonde James Dean. Hermione frowned at him then noticed the time. It was almost six.

There were no wizarding trade unions. Professional Associations abounded but labour reform had largely passed by the magical world. Ministry employees by custom worked to the work, which was why non-jobs were coveted. You were paid by the title not the hour. Hermione aimed to change that but it was a major project and politically speaking not the right time. There were so many other laws that needed passing.

“I am sure the proletariat appreciates your concern, comrade.” Hermione saved and logged out, tidying up as Basingly appeared in the door way behind Draco. No sandwiches this time. He was wearing his Tyrolean hat, which meant he was on his way home. The two wizards looked each other over like alien species. Neither was impressed.

“Most of the team leaders and research staff will be in tomorrow if you want to review the latest experiments, Ms Granger.” Basingly remarked. “But we have run through the authorised projects and will need to convene ARC and RINGO.” He deliberately used Department jargon. “The Blues Brothers won't be back from Tel Aviv until Wednesday. So it might be best to hold off on the scrum until then.”

“Tell Delhousey I want surety on batch five before I green-light. Vlahoc can cater freely.” Hermione tapped her desk with her wand, locking everything. “I’ll leave Peer until Monday then Accio Meeting on Thursday.” She smiled and Basingly nodded, tipped his hat and sauntered off. Draco watched him go with a frown.

“Evidently gibberish is the latest fashion at the Ministry.” He was on edge from the effort to get into the Department to see her. He had a security escort waiting to take him back through the beeping gates. The subdued hum of Muggle devices and the glass boxes in which people in white coats worked were foreign to him.

“I am happy to explain but it will involve a lengthy lecture and you are here for a reason.” Hermione prompted pleasantly. She was a bit weary but after enduring the dragging tiredness of the past few weeks she felt renewed. It was time to leave though if Basingly was departing. He was usually the last of the ‘office’ shift to depart. The research staff had an evening and night rota to supervise experiments. The lure of new discoveries and caffeine kept them going.

“I am here for several reasons.” Draco considered requesting an explanation then decided against it. He did not want to appear foolish and strongly suspected the older wizard had been speaking in tongues to exclude him from the conversation. Who was Ringo and how did one convene him? “Firstly and most urgently from the number of owls besetting Malfoy Manor, our affair seems to be the hottest gossip.”

“I know. Basingly mentioned it.” Hermione flicked the light off as she stepped out of the office. Standing beside the tall, handsome wizard in the shadows might have been romantic except he was eyeing the light switch sceptically. “Lumos destabilises the thaum-resonance even on a crystal matrix.” She remarked, all of which Draco understood clear as the aforementioned crystal. It was just jargon of another sort, the witch thought.

“Basingly.” He said sourly.

“When you screw up your face like that you look eleven and petulant.” She strolled through the halls, waving to the researchers on duty. They returned various gestures. When Lynch saw her with Malfoy following, she clasped her hands to her heart and sighed at Tristan, who embraced her theatrically. Hermione gave them a genteel clap for their amateur dramatics before signing to them to get back to their cauldrons. 

All the glass boxes were soundproofed by some Muggle means, Draco realised having noted both the absence of sound from the pair making a scene and the absence of the distinctive buzz of an embedded silencing charm. He elected again not to inquire further. He had never taken a day of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts and had no intention of starting remedial classes now.

“If you are done teasing the animals, I would like to have a conversation.” Draco commented and made certain he was not screwing up his face in any way. Entirely to avoid wrinkles not because she had suggested it. Which in itself was childish, he reminded himself and tried to relax. Hermione tucked her arm in his as they rounded the corner so they strolled past the security wizard as a couple.

“Darling, you say the wickedest things.” She laughed softly, eyes dancing.

Draco thought as fast as the tame lightning in her Muggle machines. He kissed Hermione, wanting to show her there could be passion without violence or Weasley slobber. It was all for the guard, though why he was important Draco had no idea. He was not going to question the opportunity presented by her flirting.

Her hands clenched instinctively on his arms, her nails digging in. The werewolf had only kissed her once. It was not something that alarmed her and after the first surprised reaction, Hermione relaxed. Draco was a good kisser as well as a good actor she might as well make the best of it. Her thudding heart gradually calmed.

He broke the kiss only when he ran out of breath. She tasted of cinnamon and the only thing keeping her from finding out how much he had enjoyed that was her stomach brushed his before his groin touched hers. Draco told himself to say something so she would think this was an act but she beat him to it.

“He’s gone.” Hermione laughed again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She felt like she was fourteen again and flirting with Viktor in the library, though he had never kissed her as hotly as that. He was a nice guy. Draco Malfoy had never been accused of being nice in his life. Dousing herself with mental cold water, she said. “You said there were several reasons.”

“Who was he?” Draco asked and used the moment Hermione looked away towards the retreating guard to covertly adjust himself. Think of Goyle naked. Ah, that did it. She turned back to him and rolled her eyes.

“Audrey’s brother Edwin.” Hermione saw he did not get it. “Audrey is Percy’s wife. Percy Weasley.” She kept feeding him information until the Eureka moment. Then he rolled his eyes. “Quite. So now details of our snog will be winging its way across England. Molly Weasley knew within fifteen minutes the first time Ron and I had sex.”

“Thank you for that mental image.” He smirked. Who needed Goyle naked when you had Weasley hot to trot? With that cooling his ardour, Draco was able to speak quite negligently when he aired one of his other reasons for venturing into the depths of the Ministry. “We, you will note the plural, received an invitation to the Flints’ summer party. An invitation that was not forthcoming to myself or my parents previously.”

“The Flints are hardly the most lauded family in Britain.” Spending a stifling afternoon making small talk with pure-bloods was not high on her To Do list. Hermione had no penchant for masochism. She strode through the Ministry thoroughfares, aware she was garnering more than the usual stares. So she slowed her stride and took Draco’s hand. Her reputation was very important to her. Better a pure-blood’s inamorata than a werewolf’s bitch.

“That is true. However they have a lot of connections across the political spectrum. Their party will be an efficient way to air the plan.” He answered smoothly, having rehearsed his strategy. Her casual nod showed him how little she thrilled at the prospect. He tried another tack. “Have you been invited to any social events this season?”

“Have you?” Hermione asked mildly and his hand clenched around hers. He was going to pull away so she squeezed his fingers to hold him. She had learned that with Ron. Once he disengaged there was no talking to him. Her dinner with him had convinced her of something she had only suspected; there was a lot more to Malfoy than prejudice and arrogance.

“There have been no invitations for several years.” Draco said blandly. His eyes were cool. He could have been carved from marble. He extricated his hand. Hermione met his stare.

“Screw them then.” She said briskly. He gave her a patronising look. “I am serious. They’re just like Slughorn toadying up. And Marcus Flint has the looks and manners of a troll. He is still a horrendous bully. Last season when the Harpies played Falmouth, he nearly had Ginny off her broom after word got out she was expecting.” Hermione shook her head. “Tell them you have something better to do.”

“I do not.” The scion of Malfoy answered dryly.

“Then find something.” Hermione flicked her wand across a ward gate and stepped into a floo grate. “Surrey exit.” She said clearly and vanished into the green flames. Not one to let anyone have the last word, Draco followed her. He stepped out of the hearth into a Ministry building with all the charm of a Muggle bus shelter. Following the witch through the front door, he found himself in a park in the heart of suburbia. Looking back, he had just stepped out of a small brick building with a council sign bolted under the eaves.

“A public loo?” Draco wrinkled his nose. Fair enough the Ministry needed to camouflage its access portals but really, did they need to go that far? Anyone who could afford it maintained a private floo connection. It did not occur to him the issue might have been more of secrecy than knuts. He would never marry a Muggle and have to lie about what he was.

“Glasgow exit is piggy-backed onto a sewerage treatment substation.” Hermione disguised herself then tucked her wand out of sight. There was a confounding ward around the building to keep anyone from noticing the people coming and going. As any mother of small children would tell you, there was never toilets when you needed them. “I’m going to see my parents.”

“Is that my cue to make an excuse and exit?” He looked around them then back at Hermione. She expected him to shy off. What he meant to say was ‘I am not going to leave you to walk around lone.’ It came out a little differently. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”


	23. Good News and Bad News

Hermione timed her visit to exactly a minute under the fastest location charm yet devised. Even if Fenrir Greyback could somehow trace her, Dark Arts or not he could not do it in less than ten minutes without divine intervention. She had time to hug her parents and show them she was doing fine. 

It was a long drive for her mother to come to Grimmauld Place plus the dental practise was very busy. Their last visit had hardly been delightful. She wished she had a time-turner so she could say everything she wanted to her parents but just seeing her smiling was enough for them. Hermione made introductions, Draco was on his best behaviour and invited the Grangers to Sunday lunch.

They had picnic on the grounds of the heavily warded Malfoy Manor. The Granger women had a nap on a blanket in the sun, lulled by the assurance of safety and the exhaustion of worry. Draco and Martin spoke at length but civilly.

Hermione went back to work on Monday and got stuff done. The Ministry quaked in her wake. Her stay at Grimmauld Place lasted only until the end of the week. On Friday the news broke that the Aurors had finally caught Fenrir. Basingly went north to help identify the body and gave her his word it was Greyback. It was Harry who gave her the details.

Lying on the sofa in the Potters’ flat, Hermione listened intently as she entertained James by making his toys dance. Ginny was frugal by nature and had given her eldest her own childhood playthings. The innate magic in them had long since dissipated but the little boy’s enjoyment had not.

“Foxley and Telfer chased him down into a farm house but he must have caught their scent because he’d rigged it to burn. Spilled cooking oil, kerosene, anything flammable. We think he made the old man who lived there help him.” Harry glanced at James, who was jigging with the toys oblivious to his father. “It went up like a bonfire. Telfer is still in St Mungo’s. But they found Greyback in the ashes. Your werewolf expert confirmed it.”

There was silence between them for a long while. Ginny clattered in the kitchen, pretending she had not been eavesdropping. Baby Albus slept in his crib in the spare room. James clapped and laughed as the battered tin soldiers twirled.

“It was like the war all over again.” Hermione did not have to say anything else. Harry knew exactly what she meant. She would cry later but for now Ginny had roast chicken a la Weasley. 

And she did cry all that night, letting go of her fear. There were still loose ends but it was over. She had wanted him dead and he was. She could go home and forget.

Life of course went on. The Magically Integrated Sciences Department teams went back into the field, she moved out of Grimmauld place and reports happened. Hermione threw herself into her work whilst trying not to look at the calendar. There were two reasons for that. The first was time was passing and Neville's progress had been more sideways than forwards. And secondly, Draco had done a Malfoy and twisted her words.

He had turned down the Flints’ invitation but had sent his own. He was going to have a party. They were going to host the party. Because even with Greyback safely dead, there were still lies to air. Draco had shown her the guest list and she had told him he was bonkers. The end of August drew nigh.

The day before the Malfoy fete, Neville Apparated to her house. It was Saturday and Hermione was lounging in the garden with her feet up. Her swollen ankles were giving her trouble as was the Department budget. There were cost overruns for which she could not account. Her friend’s sudden arrival into her backyard was an welcome diversion.

He stepped out of the rosemary and sat down on one of her wrought iron garden chairs with only the barest pause for greetings. He put down two vials of red liquid on the table, regarding her so grimly she set her laptop aside to give him her full attention.

“Someone has sabotaged my research.” Neville's voice resonated with anger but he kept his tone even. “As I said in the latest report, we've had far more success eliminating ingredients than finding compatible ones. So much so, I went over every step of the testing process to make certain there were no errors.”

Hermione nodded. She had felt a little guilty checking up on Neville's employees' backgrounds. Everyone passed the vetting with flying colours. There were no questions about their diligence or integrity. So this was going to be very bad news.

“I found something unexpected.” He held up the test tubes, both marked with the sigil of the MIS. “I have been receiving regular amounts of werewolf blood for testing the brews we have formulated. My assistants do the actual pour and mix as I have to concentrate on the Wolfsbane. We tested the first batch of blood. It came from a lycanthrope. When I went back to verify the process, I discovered the subsequent batches did not.”

With shaking hands, she picked up a vial and studied it. There was nothing to say where the blood originated. Hermione put it down, looking to Neville to end the suspense. She did not want to think until she had all the facts. Then she thought she would throw up.

“It’s wolf blood. Ordinary canis lupus.” He sat back and restrained himself from shouting. “Completely useless. We might as well have been pouring the potions down the privy.”

Hermione thought about the first Saturday in July. She had just got out of the shower when she had felt it. A kick. She had been distantly aware of previous internal activity but given the various intestinal indignities she had been enjoying she had not remarked on it. Honestly, how can you have constipation and wind? Not to mention her stomach’s objections to food seemed to have migrated southwards. 

But the kick was a kick.

She had lost it completely. She had been sobbing in her bed for an hour when someone tapped on the window. Hermione had looked up, registered it was Draco on a broomstick and had gone back to weeping hysterically. He had gone away only to return with Harry and her parents in tow.

It had not been a good day. She thought about it now because the same light-headed, sick feeling of shock washed over her. Emptiness, hollowness as though she was made of blown glass and the lightest blow might shatter her. But the first Saturday in July had been worse than this. She could do something about this. So Hermione took a breath that was mostly gasp then spoke with a calmness that surprised the furious Neville.

“All the vials have serial numbers. If you would make note of all of them, I'll be able to track where the substitution was made.” She turned to her laptop and made a note. It would be simple stock control verification, much easier in a database than a dusty overladen cupboard as was the usual wizarding method. Hermione regarded her friend levelly. This was not the worst. She could cope. “What is the status of the project?”

“With the proper materials we'd be able to redo all our work.” Neville did not like the cut-crystal precision of her voice but he recognised it. He had spoken that way himself, taking refuge in ice when everything inside was vitriol. “The research notes are meticulous. We can retrace our steps and I've kept samples of everything.” He did not hesitate to say it. “But you've quickened by now.”

“I have.” Hermione confirmed, her voice flat. “It is been more than a month since I could feel them for certain.” Their gaze met unflinchingly. She did not say that with modern medical technology if she delivered now chances were the babies would survive although with significant disabilities. He did not say even if he rechecked every potion they had made there was no guarantee any would work. They sat there and said nothing, thinking the same thing. They had lost the battle.

“Do you want me to keep you up to date on the research?” Neville inquired. The project would go on for as long as it had funding. They had not run out of time unlike Hermine. Who he had failed. What he was also asking was whether she intended to risk herself with an untried potion. She shook her head slowly.

“The project has significant possibilities when paired with the MIS in-house research. I'd be obliged if you passed along the progress reports to my department.” Hermione made a pushing gesture, passing the ball to his court. She glanced at her hand. Her fingers were trembling. “Thank you, Neville.” Their eyes met. “If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone right now.”

“I'll go tell Harry about this.” Neville Apparated away feeling as though he had left a funeral. 

Hermione sat in her garden and stared at nothing for a while. Up and down, up and down. She did not know how she would be feeling from one day to the next. Sometimes she cried at nothing and sometimes she could soldier on like a Legionnaire. She looked at the spreadsheet on her laptop. Someone in her Department was torturing her. After packing up, Hermione grabbed Crookshanks, locked her house and fled.

She could not go to her parents. She could not go to Harry and Ginny or any of her other friends. She would not go to the Burrow and she could not stay at Hogwarts. So Hermione went to Malfoy Manor. It was not flattering for Draco but he was the best choice. His home was warded with and against the Dark Arts, and he wanted her to play along with his plan. When he had found her sobbing, he had got Harry. She hoped he cared enough that he would not turn her away. The irony of it struck her hard.

There were house elves running around everywhere getting ready for the party. One ran to fetch the master while Hermione clutched Crookshanks to her and fought for calm. She tried to distract herself, aware delayed reaction from Neville’s news was kicking in. Malfoy would think her a basket-case. But she could not stay in her house warded with Department spells when someone she worked with had betrayed her.

Draco was not running. He was merely walking quite briskly. Fate was a sadistic trollop to bring her here before he was ready for her. Tomorrow was the fete and tomorrow they would cavort about playing pretend. He had braced himself for that ordeal. It would be durance vile but hardly anyone had refused his invitation. The plan was working. Though bloody hell it was hard on him.

And there she was, white as alabaster and trying not to tremble. Draco had never given much credit to the much-praised Gryffindor courage. Charging in headlong took more stupidity than nerve. Looking at Hermione and listening as she clung to social niceties trying to excuse asking a favour of him, he found respect for her.

He took the horrible cat out of her arms and the computer satchel off her shoulder before leading her inside.


	24. Come into My Parlour

Draco took Hermione to the Ivory Room, so named for the damask curtains draping the windows and four poster bed. He set down her baggage on the chaise, which Crookshanks promptly disdained and took himself off. The witch watched him go with blank eyes allowing Draco to guide her to the bed.

“Someone in the Department sabotaged Neville’s work.” Hermione explained dully as he knelt to slip off her sandals. Draco massaged her feet and she sighed, tears tracking down her face. He just nodded. She sat there trying to find words but this betrayal was too much. Ryan had been young and although a half-blood his politics had run darker than his file suggested. She had been shocked. However, he was dead. 

Hermione had thought the matter at an end. She had asked for a review of Department employees by a Ministry oversight committee as a formality. Their report had largely cleared the MIS though Haddley had got a ‘P’ not an ‘E’ for Charms. Yet someone had switched the blood and not just once.

Draco smoothed his hands up her calves, kneading gently. She let him. Hardly a passionate acceptance but it was a start. He knew he should feel some reluctance in seducing her considering what she had been through. He promised himself he would leave if she sent him away. His fingers curved under her knees to massage the cramped tendons there and Hermione spread her legs automatically, letting him lean forward to work out the knots.

“There are Department wards on my house.” She told him and he nodded again, comprehending her desire not to remain at her abode. As far as he knew, there had been no progress in tracking down the ward-breach the werewolf had used to break in. Potter had not seen fit to keep him informed. If whoever had developed the wards had leaked the formulae then a breach could be tuned to bypass them quite easily. Draco did not want to think about DADA at this moment.

He followed his hands up her thighs, sitting behind her on the bed. Hermione stiffened with alarm recalling Fenrir’s last visit and screwed her eyes shut trying not to remember. Draco pulled his hands away as she choked down on a sob. He stood up. She thought he was leaving and she sobbed again. She wanted comfort, she did, but memories came rushing back at odd times and she was so overwhelmed.

“Look at the mirror, Hermione.” Draco was not about to give up now. She had not sent him away. He sat back down behind her but visible in the dressing mirror he had moved for the purpose. Hermione watched their reflection as he put his hands on her shoulders. She was still tense but her agitation eased. He could not sneak up on her. His long fingers made slow circles across her collarbones, gently at first.

He was vain. His fingernails were neatly manicured and unmarked by manual labour. Hermione sat passivel as he progressed down to her scapula. She named the vertebrae as she tried to take slow, deep breaths. Her blood pressure was high according to Dr Kapur. She had managed not to smirk when the gynaecologist told her that but she had grown serious when she was threatened with bed rest. 

Hermione flinched when he undid the catch of her bra. Draco casually pushed the ends aside to concentrate on a knot in her midback. He tucked a pillow between them so he could shift closer without poking her and giving away his intentions. She rolled her head back with a groan when he found a good spot, arching against his hands.

Draco was patient. Slowly he worked down to her lower back. He got her squirming in a way that made him very thankful for the pillow. She needed this and so did he. Massaging his way up he had her sighing by the time he reached her shoulders. Fortunately Hermione was wearing an old sundress, probably borrowed from Ginny Potter, so he could untie the straps and bare her back.

Her skin smelled of sandalwood. Draco rubbed his palms in leisurely circles. She lolled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. The view looking down was very stirring. Pregnancy had been generous to her cleavage. He traced his hands slowly down her arms. He was a very good masseur and Hermione only sighed when he pulled her right hand off her chest to work the tension from her hands.

When her fingers curled loosely in his, Draco let that hand drop and picked up the other. Hermione did not move to replace an arm across her bust to keep her dress from sagging. She seemed half asleep. He tickled her palm, getting a soft laugh in response. Her eyes were closed. He drew back to her shoulders then slowly forward, caressing her neck before he smoothed his hands down to cup her breasts.

Hermione opened her eyes. She felt almost drugged, drowsy and idle. She watched him in the mirror. His thumbs slid over her nipples and her body reacted. She shouldn't be doing this, she thought, but did not move. Why shouldn't she do this? He kissed her neck lingeringly then met her gaze in the mirror.

“I will leave if you tell me to go.” Draco squeezed her breasts gently. He knew they would be sensitive. Sensitive did not begin to describe his erection. Every time she breathed, she moved the pillow between them making it rub against him. It was slow torture. But if he rushed this he would scare her and he would never get this close to her again.

“I do not want to be alone right now.” Hermione put her hands on his as he kissed her again. “Stay.”

“I won't hurt you.” Draco slipped her bra off to get it out of the way, setting it aside as another gesture of her control. It was right there. She could put it back on whenever she wished. He was no fool. She had been abused and would shy if she felt threatened, and with their history likely never forgive him for pushing her. Assuming she did not hex his balls into a pair of novelty earrings.

“I’m pregnant.” Hermione objected. How stupid was that? It was damn obvious she was up the duff. She did not know what else to say. He massaged her breasts kindling heat between her legs.

“I know.” He whispered against her neck. Draco found that he did feel compassion for her. Not for the schoolgirl who had bested him but for the young woman who had stared down his aunt; who had gone back to Hogwarts when he could not face it. And for the woman who had fought free of Fenrir Greyback. 

“It doesn't feel real.” Hermione closed her eyes, rubbing her hands along his thighs. He felt real and she felt real and inside her they felt real but there was no context. It was like a random dream. Any moment the setting would change and she would find herself in Tesco’s grocery shopping naked.

“It won't. Not for a long time.” Draco rested his head against hers, wrapping his arms around her. His sixth year still felt like a waking nightmare. It was his turn to sigh. Of their own accord his hands drifted down to the full curve of her stomach. She looked like a votive figure, fertile and glorious. He ached for her. He wanted to push her down and take her but once would not quench him and she would kill him before he touched her again.

“I wish I knew what to do.” Hermione let Draco Malfoy pull up the hem of her dress so he could touch her belly skin to skin. He resumed his massage, just cradling her. She decided then she would not push him away. Whether she could bear to sleep with him, she did not know but she was willing to try.

“I wish they were mine.” Draco felt one of the babies kick. At that moment he could have killed Greyback with his bare hands out of sheer jealousy. How dare that flea bag get three children on a witch! He should be struggling like the rest of them to keep their names alive.

“You do not mean that.” She said softly, still stroking his legs. There was no censure in her voice. Draco met her eyes in the mirror. They shared something he could not name, something far more intimate than their bodies.

“Perhaps not. But let us make believe for a little while.” He eased the cushion out from between them and nestled closer. Hermione wavered for a moment then hooked a finger in his pants’ cuff to pull his foot towards her. She took off his shoes, tossing them off the bed with scant regard for their hand-sewn leather. His socks followed. It seemed like a declaration.

Draco removed his shirt then put his arms around her again. He made himself wait. Hermione turned in his embrace and unbuckled his belt. She unzipped his fly then freed him from his boxers. It was all he could do not to jerk his dick against her touch but the thought of waiting this long just for a handjob made him relax.

Hermione shifted so they could both stand up. Draco stepped out of his trousers and pulled her dress off over her head. He let her remove her underwear and he removed his, giving her one last chance. If she backed away now he’d combust but she would remember he let her choose.

They kissed in the clumsy way new lovers did, bumping noses. That made Hermione laugh. Draco drew her down onto the bed while she chuckled. Onto her back so he could kiss his way up her body. He meant to savour this. His tongue traced around her nipples before he gave into the temptation to suckle.

Hermione’s mouth opened in a soundless moan. She did not know whether to swear or pray. She shivered as he rubbed her belly and when his fingers found her clitoris she was dripping wet. Draco touched her lightly, anticipating her flinch. She did tense, her heart racing. Then she looked in the mirror slowly letting her breath out.

“Hurry, please.” Hermione licked dry lips. She did not add ‘before I lose my nerve’ but the glance from his grey eyes told her he had heard it. 

Draco knelt between her legs and lifted her hips to settle her in his lap. He pushed inside her slowly. She was as hot as he had fantasised. His dick throbbed and he had to grit his teeth to keep a steady pace. He rocked his hips making sure he rubbed against her folds to stimulate her. He might not be her first but he would be her best.

Thank god he felt different. Hermione let herself move against him. She shifted a little so he could see her touching her breasts in the mirror. Draco glanced aside and groaned. Next time he saw Weasley he would laugh in his face for picking a Quidditch slag over her. He picked up his strokes a little as she responded then used a trick he had learned from a French girl and tickled the sole of her foot.

Hermione made a noise a cross between a laugh and a shriek as she twitched. She clenched around him instinctively then gasped as she fizzed towards orgasm. Not a magic button but way to use the sympathetic nervous system, she mentally babbled as she hit her peak. Draco could not last after she clamped tight around him and exploded inside her so hard it hurt.


	25. Idyll

They did something between having sex and making love again that afternoon. Draco sent a house elf to bring them lunch, too sated to bestir himself. Hermione lay contemplating the canopy trying to decide whether it was magically or mundanely woven. The fact she had bonked Draco Malfoy lurked in the back of her mind, see-sawing between good and bad on the decision axis.

“Regrets?” Draco inquired, ogling contentedly. She looked beautiful pregnant and he really did not want to spoil the moment but he felt he should ask so he would be prepared for any morning-after recriminations. He had got an earful of those from Pansy during their fifth year. She never said no but afterwards she would whine about being ruined like the heroine of a Regency romance; angling for a wedding ring and his wallet.

“None. I am entirely existential at the moment.” Hermione decided magically woven. No seams was the give-away. The good/bad Draco issue had yet to resolve itself. “I guess from your question you have no misgivings.”

Draco laughed. He had been thinking about nothing more complicated than whether he could get it up again before bedtime so he could not accuse her of Legilimency. Now he had lowered himself to bedding a Muggle-born he might as well get it thoroughly out of his system. A few days of banging and he would be over her charms.

They ate lunch companionably in bed. Hermione, in a more collected frame of mind now the shock had worn off, gave Draco the full details of what Neville had told her. She needed to talk it over with someone who had a reasonably disinterested perspective and as she was fairly confident her host was interested in her only so far as his libido was concerned he qualified.

“Your unbiased hiring policy has left you open to attack.” Draco considered what he had just been told then added in the bits he knew from Potter and Pomfrey. “That’s why it is sensible to stack your office with cronies. They are less likely to stab you in the back.” He gave her an ironic smile. She did not look amused. Nepotism was not a virtue to her. “You have a Lestrange working for you and you wonder who did it.”

“Whodunit.” Hermione corrected absently. She slid out of bed to retrieve her laptop. Draco cast a scornful glance at the anaphrodisiac machine. He considered sulking but that only worked with his mother. So he left the witch to her technology, gathered his clothes and went to finish preparations for the fete.

Hermione composed letters to Harry, Molly, Arthur, Headmistress McGonagall, her parents, her lawyer, Neville, Madam Pomfrey, Minister Shacklebolt and a very carefully worded missive to Ron. She had several ideas but wanted hard facts before she leapt to conclusions. Printing the letters was actually quite easily done. She had developed a screen-grab spell. It only worked for text so far but she could transfer a doc. to scroll quickly.

Making use of the Malfoy owlery was impeded only by the long walk to find it. No wonder the pure-blood families were against freeing house elves. Without magical slave labour, they would never be able to clean their homes. The Malfoy’s could host a UN summit in the ballroom and provide accommodation for all the delegates. Hermione sent off her letters then trekked back to the guest room to have a nap. It was not heroic but it was practical.

She dropped quickly to sleep, mentally and physically exhausted. The first tremor of alarm occurred when she rolled over. Hermione felt cold. Her back ached. She was lying on something scratchy. Opening her eyes she saw square cut flagstones. Reaching out a hand to touch them, she saw bright climbers’ rope binding her wrists. Her ankles were hobbled too and a length of rope ran between the manacles further restraining her.

Hermione touched her neck. Collar there too. She turned around. Mattress on the floor, rough blanket, chamberpot, toilet paper, water jug and flannel such were the amenities available to her. She sat cross-legged watching the werewolf’s cubs squirm in her belly. So, a dream. Or had the rest been a dream? I am now a butterfly...

A grey hackled wolf padded into her cell and dropped a bloody fawn at her feet. He licked his teeth. He, not it. She knew who he was. Hermione snatched at the carcass, pulling off a leg to tear at the meat; the taste metallic and sharp in her mouth. She ate hungrily breaking the small bones to get to the marrow. The wolf watched her. He growled once she had finished and she shifted to her hands and knees.

He licked her blood-stained face. She did the same for his reddened muzzle. Then he mounted her and mated with her. His teeth grazed the back of her neck with each thrust. Hermione moaned as he changed to hybrid and filled her further. His taloned hands reached around to grope her breasts, pinching her nipples until bright drops of scarlet fell onto the flagstones. He made her cum then changed to human and bit her shoulder hard, drawing blood again.

“You’re mine, bitch.” Fenrir Greyback growled. “My bitch.”

Hermione gasped with pain and moaned with pleasure. He licked the blood from her skin and slid his hands to her belly. Her children kicked against his touch. He growled, changing quickly back to wolf. So quickly he hurt her but he wanted to. She had defied him. She had mated with another. His knot swelled as he rammed into her. She was his and would never shake him loose. She screamed.

Draco heard Hermione’s screams and took the steps three at a time, imagining her shrieking in a pool of blood. When he was little he had found his mother like that. He had been herded quickly away by a house elf as his father summoned a Healer. No one told him what had happened. He had been about five years old. It was not until much later he understood but he still remembered vividly the crimson sheets. 

There was no blood. Hermione was fighting with the air, her fingers incandescent white with magic. Struggling not fighting, he realised skidding to a halt. She’d caught the fading remnants of a spell and was trying to hold it, to keep the link between her and the source as she scrabbled for her wand.

“Trace it!” She shouted. Draco dragged his wand out and tagged the connection. The magic fizzled but he had the signature of the spell. It floated in front of them amorphous, little more than smoke twisting into a pattern. Hermione kicked off the sheets and grabbed her wand.

“Looks like a detection charm but more complicated.” Draco peered at the sigil, conscious he had missed N.E.W.T. Charms and that Hermione was breathing very fast. She murmured several spells in quick succession, making the smoke writhe. Transfiguring a vase into a flask, she caught the smoke and stoppered it securely.

“Harry could not find a trace in my house. There was nothing there to anchor the ward-breach.” Hermione sat down, feeling light headed. She could taste blood. She could taste blood and she was not, absolutely not, going to sick up on Malfoy’s Persian rug. “It was me under a modified monitoring charm. Mediwitches use it on patients with dementia. They need a ritual circle around the patient’s bed and a sample of their blood.” Hermione took a deep breath, staring at her wrists to make certain the rope was gone. “I need to find that barn.”

Whoever had masked the charm had finesse. It was definitely not schoolbook stuff. Someone would need medical training to learn that monitoring charm. Masking it too was complicated, particularly as it was a persistent charm designed to trigger under certain circumstances. She would need to study the signature closely to learn more.

“Someone wanted to know if I slept with someone.” Hermione set the flask down on the bedside table and rubbed her eyes. It was pure happenstance she had woken herself with her own screams in time to see the haze of the charm. She had been so keyed up she had held the spell without a wand. The witch was uncomfortably aware of the wetness between her legs.

“Weasley?” Draco quipped. His first thought had been Greyback or rather the wizard helping him and he did not think that assumption paranoid. 

“Ron did not go back for his NEWTs. This is beyond him.” One big conspiracy not opportunism, Hermione thought, and the monitoring charm settled any doubt Ryan had been working alone at the beginning. No one straight out of Hogwarts could have compiled and masked a ritual. She needed answers so she could ask more questions.

“There is a bruise on your shoulder.” Draco pointed it out to absolve himself of inflicting it then regretted drawing attention to it. Hermione leapt up to examine herself in the mirror. The mark was red and already darkening. She brushed her fingers over it and winced. Covertly, she investigated her nipples but they were sore all the time so that was inconclusive.

“I am going to put this mark down to a psychosomatic reaction.” Hermione said deliberately, telling her mirror self not to fly into a panic just because the bruise was in the same place as Fenrir had bitten her in the dream. “I am not going to think about it until I have spoken to Harry.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, that is what I am going to do.”

“Why don't you get dressed? I’ll give you a tour.” Draco suggested, not quite believing what he was saying. Had he told the delectable witch to cover herself? Surely he meant ‘let us disport ourselves in wanton abandon’. Evidently not, as Hermione collected her clothes rather than wink lasciviously. This compassionate lark had knobs on.

Though Draco had to admit later when he found himself strolling arm in arm with Hermione across the south lawn that there were perks to not being a complete wanker. The brittle remoteness he had heard in her voice when she studied that bruise was gone. She was laughing at his jokes, paying attention to him quite naturally. He found himself chatting about the fete and his hopes without the nervous dread that had plagued him over the past weeks.

Yes, things were bad but somehow he could believe they would be alright. Not fairytale wonderful, he was too much of a cynic for that. But the light at the end of the tunnel was not the green flash of a Killing Curse.

Hermione let herself drift. She had done everything she could thus far and could lose herself in waiting. She rarely suffered anxiety after battle. Waiting to start was something she could control. The consequences were out of her hands. If, if, if hammered in her head but she had learned to ignore the perfectionist fussing. Mostly.

They had dinner and retired to Draco’s bed. His desire did not frighten her. She could reason with him. She could beat him. Hermione settled back into the pillows afterwards, thinking that if this came back to bite her in the arse at least she would know what shape it was. With that thought in her mind, she cast a dream ward, tucked her wand against her and waited for sleep to overtake her.


	26. Wakey, Wakey

Square flagstones, check. Hermione could not call herself surprised to find she was in the barn again but she had not been certain. Some of her dreams had been the product of hormones. Perhaps even most of them. The subconscious was a tricky thing. But whatever lingering connection between her and Fenrir Greyback, it was real enough to leave marks.

She did not want to do this. She did not want to be here. The dream ward kept her aware this was all in her head. It gave her a measure of control. It did not make this easy. Hermione looked around her. The room was about five metres square and definitely stone. There was a narrow window set high near the rafters. It was dark but she could see. She knew this place.

Hermione touched the ropes biding her. The knots did not shift. She concentrated, for the first time regretting she had dropped Divination. Dreamwalking was part of the advanced syllabus. How Trelawney would cackle if she ever found out. The ropes slowly unwound themselves. She got up and lifted the edge of the mattress.

There was a blur not anything solid. When she had been there physically she had not moved her bedding. Hermione could imagine the ritual circle’s presence but not its actual pattern. That would have to wait for the real world. She replaced the mattress and walked to the door.

It was popped open at a touch, giving her sight to the barn beyond. There were locks on the door set at human and wolf height. She remembered the grating noise they made when Greyback opened them with his paws. He had guarded her here until Aurors came close enough to spook him. Then to Morgan’s Cottage, then to Scotland, she thought.

The barn itself was not large. Hermione could see a great deal of detail about this place. The stunning curses they had used against her had clouded her recollection. Dreaming, everything was clear. It still was not much. The roof joists were old, seasoned oak she guessed. She walked to the double doors to her left.

The lower halves were more distinct, suggesting she had seen them most often from a lower perspective. On her knees. Hermione felt her anger surge up like a physical force. She strode to the doors and stepped through.

Into a dim tiled room. She looked around her. The distillery or whatever it was. Hermione tried the heavy metal door but it did not budge. She had never seen it open. The tunnel was there. She slid through it much more easily mentally than she had done physically. The courtyard. It faded to either side of her so she must have been unconscious when they brought her there. Climbing the wall to perch atop it she had a lovely view of moorland.

There were no convenient signposts or church steeples. Hermione willed herself down and walked around the wall. And around and around. Her mind filled in the texture of the brickwork because she knew there was a wall there but no gate. She had not seen the front entrance. Had she been hooded for a broomstick flight? Maybe.

Damn maybe. Hermione concentrated, pushing herself back to the barn. This was the place that would give her clues. She just had to remember them. Standing in the middle of the room, she glanced down. Those flagstones were etched sharp in her memory.

“Ryan always watched.” Fenrir’s voice was sharp too. Hermione had not realised she recalled the sound so distinctly. He was hardly a conversationalist. She turned around or rather the barn moved until she was looking at what she wished to view. The werewolf was there, in his human form sporting an impressive erection. Why in Hell’s name was she imagining him with a hard-on? That was the last thing she wanted to see again. 

“He was not there the first time.” Hermione objected, feeling like she was arguing with herself. Fenrir made a face. With his sharp canines and heavy brows he could make a very good face or a very bad one depending on your viewpoint.

“He came to the barn soon after I took you.” He snarled. “Weak. Spying. Checking up on me. Looking at you.” Fenrir growled. “I enjoyed killing him. I should have taken my time. But you took his wand.” He glared at her, stalking closer. Hermione did not move. She was in control here.

She punched him in the face and felt his nose crack. It was quite satisfying. Her memory of him healed. Hermione punched him again. She lashed out with all her rage. He stood there taking it until his shoulders were splattered with blood and she was dizzy.

“You look wrong, bitch.” He put a hand on her stomach. Hermione had pictured herself with a flat belly. She stared horrified as she swelled under his touch. Fenrir laughed. “That’s what I like to see.” He tickled a finger over her bump, caressing the contour of one of his cubs’ head. “Who did you let bed you? Is it Malfoy’s whelp?”

“This is my dream!” Hermione focussed but try as hard as she could, she could not reassert the image of herself not pregnant. She shook her head and willed herself to calm. This was all in her head and she was the mistress of her thoughts.

“Our dream.” Fenrir bared his teeth. He backhanded her hard enough to knock her onto one knee. He kicked her leg out from under her and laughed at her as he sent her sprawling. “The wizard said I could have you whenever I wanted you. He made this place for us so you could never run from me. You are my bitch!”

“Not tonight, Josephine.” Hermione hissed and dragged herself out of the dream.

She woke clear-headed at dawn with a throbbing face and a sore knee. Hermione got out of bed, heading to the bathroom. It was as big as her living room. Everything was ivory even the porcelain. She felt as though she should dress up to wash her hands. The mirror simpered at her as she inspected the bruise on her face. That would not be a good look for the party, she smirked and winced.

Hermione investigated her mouth. No broken teeth but there were several lacerations and a lot of swelling. Next time she was going to dream of silver hand grenades. She mended the damage then messed about with her hair as she considered what she had learned.

Unfortunately there was nothing she could pin down as unknown to her. The dream connection could be her subconscious providing answers. She would have to go back again as little as she liked the idea. Hermione was less revolted than she had anticipated at discovering she had a remnant of the werewolf in her. Of course, she already knew she did. She had only to look down.

They were quite active this morning. They still had room to roll around. She was not out of the woods yet. She was due the second week in December but multiples rarely went full term. Thirty four weeks was about the average, which took her to around Halloween. Hermione had a superstitious feeling about that. She had conceived on the equinox. It might be fate to birth on Samhain.

She could still cut them out of her.  
That was still something she could do.  
Everything she risked now by ending them, she would risk later by delivering them. Maybe.

She hated maybe.

Hermione gave up trying to make her hair behave. She brushed it and left it to do its own thing. A subtle cosmetic charm to bring out her glow such as it was but no perfume as the garden was full of flowers. The Malfoys never threw anything out so she borrowed a wafty blue gown to avoid looking like a poor relation. 

Draco gave her a briefing on etiquette. They greeted guests as a couple, smiling and making small talk as the pavilions filled with people. Hermione recognised many from Hogwarts. A surprising number of them did not recognise her. The questions rained but she lied like a trooper. Malfoy was born to this, mingling effortlessly. After the fourth conversation on the theme of ‘my god, you’re huge and no ring’ she ducked out into the owlery for a break.

A couple of replies had come in, including one from Harry. Hermione made a note to tell him the Selwynns were back in the country. The elder Selwynn was wanted for questioning and had wisely not shown his face at the party. But if his heirs were slinking back he might have crawled home too like the cockroach he was.

Molly had given her the telephone number of her second cousin. She must be feeling guilty as the tone of her letter was quite pleasant. Hermione shook her head. Ron had also answered. She had just finished reading the sender’s details on the back of the envelope when a broad hand plucked it from her grasp.

“Naughty little witch, getting letters from lovers.” Marcus Flint held the letter out of her reach and leered affably at her. A bludger to the face had forced him to correct his teeth but he looked even more like a troll than he had at school. Ron and Ginny complained endlessly about his tactics but he had taken Falmouth to the Championship last year. 

“Can we fast forward this, Flint?” Hermione glared at him. She was not in the mood for teasing. “Wink, wink, ogle, you say ‘I likes a girl with spirit’ and I knee you in the nadgers.” She gestured at the envelope but did not try to grab for it. “Kindly give me my letter back. It is none of your business.”

“That’s where you are wrong, love.” He grinned. “You're carrying on shamelessly with a friend of mine. I have every right to be interested in whether you are doing him a bad turn.” He pawed her with his eyes, leaning forward to look down her cleavage. Hermione slapped him across the face hard enough to leave a mark.

“You lying ratbag. You are no friend to Draco.” She protested on Malfoy’s behalf but she hit Flint because of what he had done to Ginny and for daring to slime her with his gaze. He just laughed, dropped the letter into her hands then sauntered out of the owlery. Inbreeding at its daftest, Hermione observed to herself, wondering what that had been all about.

Ron was also wearing the Stupid Hat today. After a page of barely legible rant over her sending him a Malfoy owl, he finally answered her question. He did have a spare key to her house as it was still technically his house too. Cue further rant. Finally, at the end of the letter she got the meat and potatoes. When he had shown up to apologise and interrupt Greyback’s visit, the key had not worked. He accused her of changing the locks. She had looked into that but her lawyer had advised against it until the divorce was settled.

Hermione did not know whether the Department wards on her house would shut her in if the werewolf was there but Ron’s inability to get the door open suggested they would. The fact her ex-husband had not been Stunned unconscious by the wards she had personally set against him was also interesting. Circumstantial evidence abounded but she wanted solid proof before she nailed the guilty to the wall.

She had told Harry her suspicions and he had agreed to quietly convey a sample of Fenrir Greyback’s alleged corpse to Neville, who could run a few tests outside Ministry oversight. That was the reason why she had sent an owl to Minister Shacklebolt’s home not his office and had marked the letter with an Order of the Phoenix sigil. Assuming Ryan was working alone was a mistake Hermione did not intend to repeat.


	27. Blackmail

The fete wound on until mid-afternoon before finally winding down. Hermione was exhausted. She headed upstairs while Draco said their farewells to the last of his guests. Shower, pyjamas, dream ward, wand and bed then slumber. She drifted for awhile, aware she was coming out of a sleep cycle into REM. It was a very odd sensation to be conscious of the transition.

The barn formed around her. Details of its exterior filled in as she watched. She had been outside though she could not remember when. Had she tried to escape? Hermione liked to think that she had. Walking around the weathered exterior, she stumbled over an old pipe lying half buried in the undergrowth. Ryan was there, grabbing her as she stumbled. The sudden recollection of his hands on her made her hit him.

She was hitting a lot of people lately, anger bubbling up spontaneously. It would be tempting to ascribe it to the lycanthropes incubating inside her. They must react to the full moon. They were certainly more active during that time. Hermione made several circuits of the dream barn concentrating and trying to sharpen the memory. There were a lot of trees.

A huge wolf came bounding out of the dark green shadows, charging towards her. The vision blurred as in her memory she turned to run. Hermione saw everything jumble around and then she was looking up at him as she lay flat on her back. Canine teeth were centimetres from her face. A drop of his saliva touched her cheek. First instinct, wet herself. Second instinct, scream. 

Thank you, primitive monkey brain, Hermione thought sourly as her vision tunnelled with adrenalin and she lost details. Ryan babbled something and the wolf backed off. That memory faded abruptly. They had hit her with another Stupefy. Was that the only restraining spell Ryan knew? She got up. The black wolf was still padding around. He changed as she watched, aroused again.

“Clever witch.” Fenrir said, stretching. He flexed his shoulders then shook himself. The gesture was as natural for him in human form as it was in wolf. Hermione noticed he was more clean-shaven than when last she had seen him, which was odd as she could not imagine him caring about his grooming.

“They cleaned you up regularly at the Holding Facility.” Hermione remarked. She had seen it done, having informally inspected the cells for her own peace of mind. A few simple spells cast out of harm’s reach was sufficient. Many of the werewolves came in with ticks and fleas, or so feral they did not care if they were soiled. “Am I remembering you when I first saw you?”

“He needs fur for the ritual. You’re cunning, bitch.” Fenrir snapped, showing his teeth. “But you won't get away from me.”

“That’s interesting.” Hermione was on her guard now. While she knew reinforcing any link between two living things required physical substance from them both, the werewolf spoke in the present tense. Her wand appeared in her hand. If her suspicions were correct, she was speaking to a living projection of Fenrir not a shadow in her mind. Harry got flashbacks sometimes of Voldemort but they were fleeting. This was a little too real.

“I do not think so.” He growled, padding around her. Fenrir stepped in quickly and put a hand on her stomach, forcing her again to show herself as heavily pregnant. Hermione gritted her teeth. Her subconscious was not helping there. Her body knew she was with child. She tried not to wince as he ran his hands over her. “They’re werewolves. I’ve bred true.”

“What did you bloody expect? Kittens?” Hermione slapped his hands away. He fisted a hand in her hair to still her. The werewolf caught her by surprise not because of his speed, he was slower in the dream than in the physical world, but because she had noticed difference. Fenrir twisted his grip, making her grimace. The pain felt quite real.

“Do not snap at me, bitch.” The werewolf grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed hard. That really hurt. Hermione concentrated. Her fist shot out lightning quick, connecting with his stiffened penis. He howled and flung her away from him. Hermione let out a cry of delight. She had wanted to do that for months. Fenrir clutched himself in agony.

“Give me a name.” Hermione ordered. “Who is working with you?” She skipped away from him as he straightened with rage burning in his eyes. “Touch me again and I'll drink Neville's potion to rid myself of your litter!”

That stopped him. Fenrir Greyback was a murderer but not a cold-hearted one. He had killed in the hunt, in anger, for the thrill of it but he was not a calculating killer. To beat him, she needed to out think him. Here in the dream world was the ideal arena because she was brilliant and he was a dumb mutt who thought with his now bruised genitalia. Hermione showed her teeth at him.

“You want these cubs. Fine. I might decide to carry them to term.” She might decide to let the sun set, she had about the same amount of control over either prospect. “But I will have something I want first.” Hermione caressed her stomach as she arched her back to flaunt his litter. He growled deep in his throat. “Who is helping you?”

The werewolf gave her a name.

Hermione woke to the smell of lavender. Damnation! She was going to have to cast a tracking charm on herself to ensure she knew where she was whenever she woke up. Nothing in Malfoy Manor had smelled of lavender. Looking around her, she recognised the room as a hospital suite. A certain shabby cheerfulness and a lack of machines that went beep told her she was in St Mungo’s.

Crookshanks looked at her from the end of the bed and yawned with his whole face as she got out of bed to pee. Upon her return, there was a Mediwitch and Harry with a thermos. Explanations followed. She had been asleep for almost three days. When he could not wake her, Draco had brought her straight here. Hermione waved the update aside.

“Basingly.” She said quickly, not willing to maintain the mystery novel convention of a long reveal. “I spoke with Fenrir in a shared dream and he said under coercion that Basingly was the one helping him.”

“Right.” Harry handed her the thermos. “Pumpkin juice.” He said and Apparated away. He had never been one to hang about and he was willing to risk a lot for what his best friend told him she dreamed. The Mediwitch chivvied Hermione back into bed but allowed her a scroll and the promise of an owl.

The day became very busy after that. Aurors arrived to take a statement and copy her memory into a Pensieve for their records. Harry had insisted on visual evidence as well as witness statements to avoid allegations of intimidation or Imperius. He had very quietly attended seminars on British policing methods and had modernisation plans much like she did.

Draco visited with an enormous bouquet plus the more welcome gift of her laptop. He stayed to gloat over the reciprocal invitations they had received and the article in the Daily Prophet about the fete. He handed over her correspondence as well as the laundered clothes she had left at his home before going to fetch her parents. At no point did he say he had been worried about her though she noticed his socks did not match.

The Grangers fussed over her, both noticing the change in her demeanour. Hermione assured them she was feeling much better but did not provide any further information. She did not want to get their hopes up. The Wizengamot was not going to convict Basingly on the basis of a wanted felon’s proxy testimony. She would tell them everything when she had his head on a platter.

To that end, she had a long conversation with Philip Prewett aka the Second Cousin Who Shall Not Be Named via mobile phone. Hermione explained the situation and he agreed to pop by that afternoon to see what he could do. 

A certain militant look in the Mediwitches’ eyes suggested her stay would not be short and when she read Madam Pomfrey’s reply to her owl, she was not surprised. Hermione ended up taking the path of least resistance and giving the Hogwarts Healer’s missive to the Mediwitches, leaving them to sort it out amongst themselves. She knew how to pick her battles.

Neville strolled in just as her parents were leaving. He brought a potted rose, the blooms perfect azure, and Hermione laughed at the private joke. They shared a grin as Neville put his gift on the windowsill were the rose would get the most light then lent over her bed to give her a hug. Neither of them noticed Malfoy’s glare as he ushered the Grangers out of the room.

After pleasantries, Neville and Hermione talked about aconite and other useful plants of the Buttercup family. She showed him schematics of the tranquilliser darts the MIS teams used, explaining exactly what she wanted. And because it was Neville, she explained exactly why she wanted it. He agreed without question giving her another hug before he left.

A middle aged man with carefully combed ginger hair ducked his head into her room a few minutes later. He was wearing a neat blue suit that matched the colour of his eyes. His gaze flicked from Hermione’s face to the laptop then back. He smiled. There was no doubting the resemblance to Molly. She waved him in.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice.” Hermione extended her hand for him to shake. Philip Prewett set down his briefcase, shook her hand then took a seat. He had obviously come straight from work. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Or there’s pumpkin juice in the thermos.”

“Don't mind if I do.” He said in a cheerful Yorkshire accent. Pouring himself a glass, he took a long drink then set the juice aside. “Courtesies done, I think. Let’s have a look at those accounts you mentioned.”

Hermione turned the laptop over to him and ran through the standard Department accounting procedure; budget in one column, expenditures in the other first on a scroll then magically scanned onto a spreadsheet. Half way through, Philip Prewett rolled his eyes.

“I know but it is the best system I can wean people on. I did not realise how bad it was until I got blank looks when I mentioned receipts.” Hermione had done a bookkeeping course before she got married so she could manage her finances though her parents had taught her the basics. They ran their own business after all. “It all adds up but it does not add up right. That’s why I need someone who knows wizards and accounting.”

“Even with the slyest embezzlement, there are signs somewhere.” He agreed, putting on a pair of silver rimmed spectacles. “I deal mostly with corporate accounting. This is comparatively simple.” He did a few things with the spreadsheet then slotted in a flash drive and hummed to himself. It was the Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Hermione waited quietly.

Philip eventually handed the laptop back. There were a disturbing number of cells outlined with red. She grimaced. The program he had used to verify the totals flagged anomalous entries going back more than a year. Basingly had been planning this for a while and had managed to filch a good chunk of money.

“How did I miss this?” Hermione read through. Five sickles here, a galleon there, all dispersed across projects. Philip had marked suspect expenditures in yellow. Some she could resolve. They’d had a fire in one of the labs and had lost a lot of minor materiel. Basingly had sorted it out. She had trusted him.

“It is only obvious if you know what to look for. I’ve been doing this for years. The trick is to find the pattern.” Philip smiled, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He patted her on the shoulder in commiseration and handed her his business card. Hermione made tactful query about his rates but he shook his head. “Just repaying the favour.”

“I’m sorry, I do not understand.” She lifted her eyes from the Technicolor outrage on her computer screen to blink at him. They had never met before. What favour did he mean?

“You invited me to your wedding. None of the other Weasleys did and they’re practically the only family I have other than Aunt Muriel.” Philip frowned, picking up his briefcase. “There was a conference in New York that week so I had to send my regrets but it meant a lot to me that for once I was included.”


	28. Battle Plans

Hermione sat up all night going through accounts and all the MIS documentation she had on her computer. She wanted to go into work to find out everything she had missed. And beat Basingly into a bloody pulp. However, that was Harry’s job, the finding out if not the pulping. She compiled a detailed report of the anomalies she had discovered and mentioned Philip Prewett several times in the section on the financial shenanigans.

A little public recognition for the man dismissed as a useless Squib. On the theme of just desserts, Hermione typed up a report detailing a new field trial for a herbal variant of the tranquilliser darts. She was not too specific in writing but it was enough to cover her and Neville’s backsides.

Hopefully she could salvage the Department’s reputation. Hermione felt responsible for saving her co-workers’ collective bacon because she knew there would be fallout from this. Bugger Basingly! This was just the sort of mad science that made wizards shy away from technology. She could guess why he did it too.

They were chronically short of test subjects and the ones they did have were infected not innate lycanthropes. It made a great deal of difference to the accuracy of their testing. Fenrir Greyback was a born werewolf. All research on him suggested he was descended from innate lycanthropes as no one had been able to successful match him to a pure-blood family for several generations. Thus his was possibly the most intense lycanthropic bloodline in the UK if not Europe.

That did not please Hermione. Remus had worried himself to the bone about passing on lycanthropy to Teddy. He thought of it as a curse. He feared it. She thought of it as a disease. But it was not a legacy she wanted for her children.

Sitting in bed staring at the wall, Hermione faced the fact that in a shorter time than she would like she would be a mother. There would be no adoption. She knew what she was facing. A Muggle family would not have the faintest idea how to cope and a wizarding family would never agree. So, it was her responsibility. That scared her.

She took a Dreamless Sleep potion at a Mediwitch’s insistence, rousing in time for dinner. Hermione ordered steak. If she was going to do this... oh my god I am going to be a mother... she would do it properly. Memory of the fawn suggested she should increase her protein intake. She had been eating healthily but it could not hurt to add more meat to her diet.

Hermione took refuge in lists. Everything that was worrying her went down on a list and the list got lists and the list’s lists got lists. Try saying that three times fast, she shook her head at herself but it did help to see everything itemised and prioritised.

She would need to make some changes. Hermione sent another owl to Florentyna Meach. There were legal details she needed to settle. Just in case. If she died and the triplets survived, she did not want them reared by Ron. Her divorce was still not finalised. No wonder magical marriages lingered. Untying the knot was not easy. Alexander the Great had the right idea with the Gordian Knot.

Were there any archaic laws about a wife’s infidelity? Hermione made some notes. She would try anything to speed up the process. Wizards’ obsession about perpetuating their lineages might have prompted a few clauses to the extensive marriage legislature. No one wanted a cuckoo in their nest. Nest, that reminded her. She needed to do something about a nursery.

When Draco swanned in looking debonair he found Hermione lying on her back with her wand in hand looking at swatches of colour on the ceiling. Surely she could not be that bored. He noted the sheaf of parchments and the infernal thinking machine on a side table. She had been busy.

“L’Oracle wants to interview us.” He observed, sitting down without being invited. “A formal interview for a piece they are doing on relationships in the New Age.” Draco said the last two words with audible quotation marks. It was not a term he liked.

“And what are you going to say? ‘The sex is great but I’m going to dump her as soon as she whelps’?” Hermione asked without moving her gaze from the ceiling. She liked mint green for the nursery walls. It was restful. She did not want to colour code her babies though she should probably ask what she was going to have to be better prepared. “We do not have a relationship, Draco. We have sex, lies and hopefully no videotape.”

He did not get the reference and frowned at her. Draco drew his wand and returned the ceiling to its original whiteness. Hermione sat up to glare at him.

“We play this out to the end, Granger. There is no point losing your nerve now.” He looked pointedly at her belly. Her glare intensified but Draco continued as though he had not noticed. “L’Oracle has more respected society commentary than the Prophet and wider coverage.” He knew she cared little about that so added his trump card. “As it might be prudent to send your children to a school outside the UK when the time comes I suggest you consider laying the groundwork now.”

“I have not lost my nerve.” Hermione retorted coldly. “I am being practical so do not get snippy with me. What are you going to say?” She repeated. A few off-hand answers and guarded smiles were not going to carry them through an interview. “You told that bint outside Malkins you were not granting interviews. Why not stick with that?”

“I have my reasons.” Draco answered, turning the conversational thermostat down another couple of notches. Hermione’s interrogating stare was diverted by the arrival of dinner. She tucked in with enthusiasm in spite of the wizard turning up his nose. He looked at her, entirely unconcerned about his opinion or presence. She would not budge to a demand so he tried another tactic. “Please.”

Hermione glanced at him, surprised. She had never heard his utter that word before. Whatever his motives he wanted this badly. She wondered if his father was not doing as well as they had hoped but did not know how to ask without prying.

“Alright, I’ll do it.” Hermione paused to take another bite, finding herself ravenous. “But I want to prepare for the interview so I need a précis from you about what we are going to say.”

“Yes, dear.” Draco smirked.

Draco was as good as his word. The précis arrived by owl the next day, a useful diversion from the Lists of Lists. Hermione had decided on white for the baby things. She could charm everything clean or there was always bleach. With three on the way, she was going to be too exhausted to care what anything looked like just so long as it was clean.

The two days before the interview passed in a blur of reports. Harry reported in, took the evidence she had compiled and gave her a briefing. Basingly was in custody currently denying everything. All his work at the MIS was under investigation. Hermione winced at that. The disruption to their research would be aggravating but at least none of the new projects had been through approval so nothing would be ruined by the inspection.

“It’ll be a fortnight at least until we’ve gone through everything. Shacklebolt has authorised paid leave for the Department staff, yourself included.” Harry was not sure whether she would like this news so he told her simply. “We need everything we can get. We’re holding him on ‘reckless magic use’ but we need something more robust than that. The embezzlement is useful but if we can't get him on Dark Arts then we may struggle to keep him in custody.”

“We’ve got to find that barn.” Hermione cogitated as Harry petted Crookshanks in an attempt to shift him from on top of some scrolls he needed. “I think I might be able to mentally go there but tracking me would need Divination. Reliable Divination, if that is not a contradiction in terms.”

“I’d hate to see Basingly walk with only a minor sentence. Five years exile for ‘stealing from his master’ is not enough for what he’s done.” Harry’s teeth ground. Their lack of concrete evidence galled him. “I’ll find a Diviner with Dreamwalking knowledge. Reliable will be more difficult.” He smirked. “We’re reduced to fuzzy logic and navel gazing.”

“Do not think I’m not thrilled about having to do find the damn place this way. It’s one step up from sacrificing a chicken to read the entrails.” Her voice was lemon sour. “Then there is the matter of finding Greyback. He has got to be stopped.” Hermione looked at Harry. “How did he get out?”

“Basingly signed him out.” Auror Potter was proud of himself for being able to utter that without profanities. When he had first found out he had use all the foul words he knew. “He forged authorisation from the Department. The custodian on duty signed off without checking whether the serial code. Apparently it’s not the first time he’s done it. Basingly knew that and chose his moment then he walked out with Greyback in manacles and restraining hood.”

“What happened when the shifts changed?” Hermione was conscious of her voice rising in pitch and took a sip of water to stop herself shrieking at Harry, whose face was already thunderous.

“The paperwork got shifted aside because of a minor accident and left. It was near the full moon and all the occupants were on edge. No one did a headcount until the full had passed. They could not risk it. Four days.” Harry shook his head. “When the custodians found out, they reported it to their boss who reported it to mine. There’s been an elite team looking for him for almost a year. I only found out when McGonagall told me.”

“How did she find out?”

“The Headmistress has tea with my boss and leaned on him. Hard, by all accounts. She threatened to turn him into a spittoon when she found out. That was about a month after you escaped. He did not want to cause alarm.” Harry’s expression told clearly how little he liked that rationale. Their eyes met. “I’ll find that Diviner as fast as a Snitch.”

Hermione simply nodded. They had no other option. Harry departed after a tense hug, leaving her to contemplate ways she could make express her displeasure to the hopefully ex-custodian who had stuffed up royally. After a while, she took a Dreamless Sleep potion and left revenge for another day.

She woke late, having planned to get an early start on her long-term budget. There was no such thing as Maternity Leave at the Ministry of Magic. That’s what house elves and wives were for, evidently. But the appointment for the interview rolled around much faster than Hermione had anticipated.

Draco showed up with a few expensive perks and a framed photo of them from the picnic. She was laughing, he was grinning and they looked happy together. A little strategic window dressing. He was in casual robes, which Hermione remarked upon so the reporter happened to walk in with them chatting amiably.

After all the preparation, the interview went off with barely a hitch. The reporter was a middle-aged Parisienne with a keen eye but she softened when they greeted her in French. Both of them were fluent enough to conduct most of the interview in that language and it helped to keep their story simple.

Their tale began with a half-drunken encounter at a Muggle club, some mutual Weasley-bashing then a tryst. That unflattering but credible start was followed by a heart to heart the morning after with tentative cafe interludes away from prying eyes. Her kidnapping interrupted their nascent romance. When she returned they had the serious conversation about babies. Obligation, mutual attraction, love overcoming social obstacles and so forth. 

Hermione lounged back in one of the armchairs, unconsciously emphasising the fullness of her bump, and smiled as Draco told an anecdote from the fete. Apparently Marcus Flint had been very impressed when she smacked him across the face. He took it as confirmation of her affection for Draco. She was unprepared for the Frenchwoman’s so very artless question.

“Are you going to marry him, mademoiselle?” She asked cannily.

“Oh, no.” Hermione answered idly. “I don't want to be a Malfoy.” She smiled and with the quickness of thought that had saved her life during the war added. “But I haven't given up convincing him to become a Granger.”


	29. Crouching Tiger

The Diviner Harry found was an old woman. Hermione listened to her speak and was surprised moths did not fly out of her mouth. Witches and wizards lived a long time but by the end of it they looked as desiccated as mummies. She paid attention however, trying to keep her expression neutral. This was all so teacups. The witch, Esme, droned on about harmonies and clearing the mind until their eyes drooped then she spoke quite placidly.

“You kissed once. It tasted like butterbeer and strawberry lip gloss. And felt like incest.” She paused, humming softly to herself. “It does not always work, dears. But when it does, it does.” Esme laughed softly. “Said the countess to the plumber.”

Harry and Hermione both blinked and looked guilty though they had no reason to be. Just the one kiss. It had felt like snogging a sibling. Neither had been game to repeat the experiment. Esme circled the room, throwing salt in the corners while murmuring to herself. Crookshanks watched her with lidded eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Harry asked quietly.

“With Basingly not talking and the barn unplottable, we’ve got no choice. The Aurors and the MIS field teams have been over the north with a fine-toothed comb.” Hermione was sure. Not thrilled or happy but she was certain. “I can do this. I need to do this. I want to be able to get on with my life.”

Harry made no further comment as she got into bed. The Mediwitch on duty cast a few charms so she could monitor Hermione and Esme did something with incense before settling into a chair. Crookshanks sneezed. It took a while for her to get comfortable as the triplets were Cossack dancing but eventually she slipped into sleep within the dream ward.

Hermione drifted. They had debated using a sleep charm to put her under but had decided against it. She needed to be able to rouse herself to escape the dream. The witch was expecting trouble and had practised visualising herself. When she came to in the cell, she was not naked. This time she wore fatigues, a long sleeved shirt, boots and a ponytail; her usual field outfit.

She strode out of the door to stand in the middle of the barn and focus herself. Esme said it would take time to find her in astral space. Hermione considered picturing a broomstick but her dislike of flying was here in her head with her so she elected to use her wand to make enough fireworks for Chinese New Year in the ghostly silver sky.

“You want my attention, bitch?” The low growl prompted her to turn around quick. Fenrir ignored the pyrotechnics to watch her, his eyes narrow and predatory. Hermione marched up to him and kneed him sharply in the groin. She was the strong one here. Her mind was disciplined. She jumped back as he bent double. His close-combat skills would be ingrained therefore nearly as fast as thought. Do not get too cocky, she warned herself.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Hermione bared her teeth at him in a smile he would understand. The longer she could keep him here, the better her chances of being found as two minds created much more psychic pull than one. She was willing to try anything and Esme was orders of magnitude less vague than Trelawney so it might work.

Fenrir leapt at her. They fought on pure viciousness, less and less encumbered by physics as they battled. Hermione was more adept though the werewolf was near tireless as he poured his rage into mental action. She could feel the intensity of his spirit; a wild, mad thing. The witch leapt up to land on a rafter as he shifted to half-wolf. It was like a kung-fu movie with the fireworks still bursting overhead.

“Not so virile here, are you?” Hermione taunted, trying to make him so angry he lost himself in the dream. She was tiring herself but she had studied through the night before and was confident she would last longer than he did. He launched himself into the air damn near foaming at the mouth. A last minute scramble got her out of his reach. They both landed panting on the flagstones.

Hermione imagined him hogtied. She put everything she had into those bonds, wanting it more than anything. Fenrir tripped up as he charged her. Ropes bound his wrists behind him and tied his ankles together. Bright, multicoloured climbers’ rope.

“Payback, asshole!” Hermione exulted. She paused for a long moment then carefully thought through a Body-Bind curse, flicking her wand at him. He stiffened to immobility. Only after she was sure he was paralysed did she approach him to roll him over onto his back so she could look into his eyes. “Scared yet?” She hissed. “I should make you suffer.”

There was no fear in his gaze. Perhaps he could not feel it. He was more than reckless. Hermione kicked him but it was not enough. She stepped back to consider what she could do to make him feel what she had felt. To make him understand what he had done to her and settle the debt between them because even Azkaban was insufficient.

An angel descended from the heavens on a trail of sparkling quicksilver. Hermione levelled her wand at the new arrival as the fireworks died. The shimmering being waved a hand at one of the barn’s walls and it dissolved to show a hospital room. Her room, with herself in the bed and Esme dozing in a chair.

“My dear, you are very good but you do not understand you need to free your mind.” Esme laughed liked a pixie, all tinkling bells and merriment. She looked at Fenrir who could do no more than snarl. She snapped her fingers and he turned into a puppy. “Nasty sort.” The seraphic witch dismissed him. “Come now, dear. Wake up. This little jaunt took rather long than expected.”

“If you say so.” Hermione nodded, weariness pulling at her. She willed herself out of the dream by walking towards the hospital room. Her legs gave way as she neared the image and she fell into it with an exhausted sigh.

Hermione woke up feeling like she had been run over by the Knight Bus. She was so stiff it took her several attempts just to sit up and by the time she managed it, she was so weary she sank back down onto the pillow. Crookshanks hopped up onto the bed to demand loudly that she adore him. Esme shushed him but it made no difference.

She vaguely expected to see Harry there but it was Draco who was sitting in the other guest chair. He was reading L’Oracle and smirking to himself. Hermione groaned and would have thrown a pillow at him if she’d had one to spare. She knew that expression.

“Do tell, Mr Smug.” Her voice was a croak. She poured herself some pumpkin juice, gulping it down as she noticed with surprise the Happy Birthday cards on her shelf. There was a gala of flowers; most from friends who knew her well enough to recall she preferred potted plants rather than cut blooms. Hermione did not see the sense in a bouquet, which was essentially a bunch of dead flowers.

“Excellent timing, darling.” Draco directed the smirk at her but went to the door to summon a Mediwitch. Hermione poured a glass of juice for Esme, who put her teeth back in to drink it and ignored the wizard’s disdain. “You’ve been asleep for more than a week. Potter’s in Galloway at the barn you found for him.”

It took an hour for the Healers to check her over and remove the monitoring and sustainment charms they had cast on her. Her blood pressure and heart rate had spiked during her dream. The duty Mediwitch gave her the expected scolding but she was overall healthy and now officially in her third trimester. Happy Birthday, Hermione, she thought a touch bitterly.

“Did they get Greyback?” Hermione demanded once she had been left to recover on her own. Esme fussed with her cloak before bundling it on any old way and pinning it.

“Don't know, dear. Do not trouble yourself about him. I’m sure he’ll turn up again.” The old witch reassured as though the werewolf was a lost pet. She took herself off and Hermione did her the courtesy of not cursing her as she departed. Him turning up again was precisely what was worrying her.

Esme was powerful, she had seen that herself, but Hermione could not help wondering whether the price was worth it. The old witch seemed to have only a nodding acquaintance with reality. Trelawney had feigned that abstraction for a seer’s image. Esme did not need to act.

“Thank you.” Hermione called after her, remembering her manners. She was grateful for the help. A faint reply came absolving her of obligation. Draco raised a silvery eyebrow at her in a studied gesture. She met his flourish and raised him a regal roll of her hand, which earned her a look down his nose before his sense of humour asserted itself.

“The interview has been published. Apparently the Malfoys are no longer a pox. Mother has had letters from several school friends keen to again admit to knowing her.” Draco handed her the French newspaper. Hermione flicked through it, noticing a copy of the picnic photo and one from the fete. There had been several guests with cameras, she recalled. “You’re parents are already in Provence and Mrs Potter will be by this afternoon to Apparate you to your party.”

Looking particularly pleased with himself, the Malfoy heir sauntered out of her room. Hermione got all the gossip from Ginny when she arrived just after lunch. Draco had organised a birthday celebration for her at his family’s chateau. Esme had promised her parents she would wake up in time. They had gone to France the day before, probably reasoning there was little else they could do other than cross their fingers.

“Please tell me it’s not a media circus.” Hermione beseeched as she let Ginny do her hair. She was perfectly capable of doing her own coiffure but Mrs Potter would not be denied. As Harry had discovered, it was easiest to surrender with good grace.

“Oh there’s been some sort of press release and there’ll be a photographer for a little while but he’s not staying long.” Ginny pinned, curled and twisted, managing to talk through a mouthful of bobby pins. “Malfoy knew you’d object so he donated the fee he got from the papers to St Mungo’s so you’ll look a right pillock if you refuse.” Her eyebrows quirked. “Whatever game he’s playing, he’s playing for keeps.”

“He’s trying to denazify the Malfoys.” Her tone was sharper than she had intended. Hermione did not like being manipulated and was conscious Draco was better at it that she was. He seemed to have got his way. She was surprised it had taken so little time. L’Oracle apparently considered the rehabilitation a done deal. Or perhaps she was not surprised, which was why she was upset. “He deserves a second chance. His father does not.”

“You justifying it to me or yourself?” Ginny asked, running out of pins and deciding her work was done. Most of Hermione’s hair coiled on the top of her head with little curls escaping to soften the updo.

“I want some control back in my life.” Hermione stood up carefully feeling like an over-inflated balloon. “This party is a lovely gesture, very kind of him, but I have had too many surprises of late.” She frowned and shook her head. “I’m fine, Gin. I’m just a bit fed up with the world in general.”

“I think you’re allowed to be.” Ginny gave her a hug. “You need to get out of here for a while. Live a little.” She grinned. “He might be a snake but Malfoy is footing the bill for a party in your honour. The irony alone ought to be worth seeing. And I know for a fact there is a Belgian chocolate cake the size of a desk that I am going to let seduce me.”

“Shouldn't you be starting training soon?” Despite Molly’s suggestions, hints and nudges to the contrary, Ginny was determined to get back to the Harpies. Mrs Potter put an arm around Hermione’s hips as her waist was a thing of the past.

“There is nothing like a dream to create the future. Utopia to-day, flesh and blood tomorrow.” Ginny said, with Victor Hugo, and Apparated them to Provence.


	30. Leashing the Dog

The party had been fun Hermione admitted to herself and tried not to grin as Mediwitches admonished her. She was back in St Mungo’s after a delightful weekend regretting nothing but her participation in an impromptu drunken game of charades. She had been cold sober and swathed in a white sheet to help a sozzled Padma do an impression of Moby Dick. It was her happy hope everyone else had been too plastered to remember.

An artfully tousled Draco had dropped her off, sending the apprentice Healers into a tempest of teenage infatuation. They would have spontaneously combusted if they’d seen him and Neville doing a tango on a dare under the influence of brandy and chocolate cake. Those boys could dance. Hermione tucked herself into bed smiling.

The mists of sleep were thick even with the dream ward and she drifted lazily. The barn coalesced around her but it did not disturb her. Harry had said they had found enough there to put Basingly away for a good long time. Ritual circles, blood magic and a stash of Dark Arts tomes in a room beyond her cell that she had never seen. His research had been disturbing even to a veteran Auror. 

Hermione wanted to see Basingly’s notes. There might be something that could help with a cure. As little as she wished to pander to his obsession, her former colleague was an accomplished wizard. Perhaps something could be salvaged from this that would better the lives of the werewolves, her children included.

With that thought, she could view the barn somewhat dispassionately. Perhaps when the trial was over she would put the worst of her memories in a Pensieve to get them out of her head. Hermione did not like doing that. Dismissing any knowledge was a loss. She had not made up her mind yet. She would give herself some time to make the right decision.

“I know you have the wizard.” Fenrir growled, emerging from the trees. He was himself again; the ropes and puppy mindset nowhere to be seen. Hermione studied him for a moment. He looked scruffier and carried himself with shoulders braced, feral and watchful. Some restraint on him had gone. Had Basingly used magic to control him? He would have been a fool if he had not.

“Good for you.” Hermione smiled at him and quick as thought summoned ropes. She could cast a spell but Fenrir would believe more in the physical bindings than the mystical ones. He tried to throw himself aside but she caught him. He squirmed on the ground but she held him. He did not beg though and that was disappointing.

Hermione hooked a finger in the mesh of ropes then took them to the distillery, to the little room in the dark where she had woken and escaped. Her memories of this place were hazy so the walls receded into blackness but she was strong here. They would not be disturbed.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to kill you.” Hermione began conversationally. “My favourite is a slow flensing then curing your hide as a rug.” She sat down beside him cross-legged so any mental lapses about the presence/absence of her pregnant belly would not put her off balance. “But that is messy and leaves evidence. I certainly do not want to go to Azkaban for your miserable hide.”

“You are my mate.” Fenrir gnashed his teeth, thrashing in his bonds. He was not taking his imprisonment lightly. Hermione stared at him and the ropes tightened. He was in human form so could not bring his claws to bear nor could he move enough to gnaw. She had thought about this a lot too.

“I said no.” Hermione snapped then calmed herself. She was in control here. “I could leave you like this to slowly wither and die. It would take a long time.” The witch was not certain how long. A Dreamer was in a state of near hibernation and werewolves were notoriously tough. He had lasted ten days without evident physical damage. “I am under medical care. We could sit here for weeks. More than long enough for the Aurors to find you.”

“You think that is enough?” Fenrir’s face twisted as he shifted form. Hermione concentrated as fiercely as the werewolf. A few of the ropes snapped but the rest held, leaving them both breathing hard. As incongruous as it was with purely mental exertion, she felt winded. His tongue lolled as he panted.

“It's not enough, no.” Her wand appeared in her hand. Hermione tapped him on the forehead with it. He snapped at her hand growling like thunder. “I picked up many useful interrogation spells when I helped the Order. Mad-Eye Moony was always happy to teach.” She warned him. “Though I expect you’ve seen them all.”

“More than you know, bitch.” He bared his teeth and flexed his shoulders trying to wriggle free. Hermione jabbed the end of her wand sharply into his solar plexus making him wince involuntarily. Then she put the length of wood away. There was little point in torturing him magically. Her efforts would never compare to what he had done with the Death Eaters and she did not want to go there herself.

So she smoothed her fingers over his penis instead. He reacted, jerking his hips away from her but lying on his back he could not move far. Hermione pulled her hand away and regarded Fenrir coldly. She imagined a pair of surgical gloves, donning them then repeated the touch, slowly caressing him until he was hard. Then after conjuring a handkerchief she folded it into a wide band and tied it around his erection behind his balls. He grunted.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Hermione remarked still smoothing her hand over him. She pictured a pair of scissors, sharp metal ones like she had found in Morgan's Cottage, holding them up so he could see them. “Imagine what I can do with these.”

How he struggled then. His male instincts demanded he protect his genitalia. Hermione focused determinedly on the ropes. Fenrir snapped a few more but she tightened the knots and in the end he had to stop or throttle himself. She smiled at him, remembering what she'd had to do in the cottage.

“We both know I can't really wound you here.” Hermione remarked, scraping the sharp tip of the scissors across his testicles. He tensed and forced himself not to wince. “But anything I do will hurt and I wager there will be some lingering damage. Bruises translate into the physical world.” She opened the scissors, the sound of the metal scraping made him clench his teeth. “Of course, your quickened healing here means I can do whatever I fancy again and again.”

“When I get loose, you will suffer.” Fenrir snarled but he did not move, proving you could train a werewolf. Hermione snipped the scissors close to his skin then proceeded to give his short and curlies a haircut. He was shivering by the end of it. Had they been in the physical world, he would have torn himself loose and be at her throat. The werewolf did not have the mental muscles to do that in the dream.

“I am suffering now. You have no idea.” She squeezed the base of his shaft, watching the tip of his penis turn purple. He was swollen achingly hard. Hermione heard his teeth grate as he breathed rough trying not to cry out. “But of course, you do not care. You have no empathy. You could not have done what you did during the War if you can any feeling for your victims.” She shook her head at him. “It’s all about dominance and power.”

“I will bite you.” Fenrir's lips drew back over his teeth in a skull's grin. She could almost see his fangs growing.

Hermione pulled her robes aside, letting her image of herself relax. Her belly expanded as she let her breath out. Acknowledging her physical state gave her a little more control over this reality because she did not have to fight her subconscious. She rubbed her stomach.

“I am going to cure them.” The witch sat back a little so Fenrir could see their children inside her. “You might have sired them but that is all the inheritance from you they will ever have.” Their eyes met and he could not doubt her intention.

Fenrir jerked in the ropes, absolutely furious at the thought of being denied his litter. She would take his pack from him! His future gone; just wizard whelps. He howled but he could not free himself. Hermione watched him thrash and twitch like he was having a fit. It took a long time before he had exhausted himself enough that she could approach him.

She should not do this, Hermione warned herself distantly. She needed to take the moral high ground and be the honourable one. The heroine. In the real world, she could never have brought herself to do it. But in her mind her own instincts and subconscious were less restrained. She wanted to hurt him.

Hermione straddled Fenrir, sitting across his thighs so she would be able to watch his face as she did it. She raised the scissors and imagined the light catching their impossibly sharp edge. The werewolf shuddered and knocked his head back against the floor trying to escape her.

“You will suffer.” Hermione threw his words back at him. She wondered if she could do this. She was so angry and wanted to hurt him so much it nearly consumed her but unlike him she could empathise. Two wrongs did not make a right. “Ask me to stop. Plead for mercy and I will let you go.”

“Bitch!” Fenrir snarled.

“All you have to do is ask.” Hermione said gently. There was an ache deep inside her. She wanted to think she was doing this coldly, rationally, strategically. Perhaps in revenge but still icy. Fenrir screwed his eyes shut. His hands tautened into claws scraping against the floor. He would not say it.

But she could make him howl.

Hermione opened the scissors with an exultant metallic noise that sang to her soul. She pulled the skin of his scrotum taut and snipped. Blood well. Fenris writhed so her next cuts were ragged. That was fine. This was not surgery. This was revenge and Hermione took her time.

The cramping inside her grew. Was it sympathetic pain? Perhaps. But she persisted until she had emasculated him completely. He would learn what it was like to be the victim. He did not have to lament his crimes but she would make sure he understood her pain.

Bloody to the elbow like Cybele, Hermione held up his genitals so he could see them. He bayed in agony. Her own breath was coming fast. There was red at the edges of the dream realm.

“If you ever come after me or my family, I will do this to you for real. I will get your balls fucking bronzed and use them as paperweights.” She snarled. “I will make sure you never, ever hurt anyone like you hurt me.” Hermione stood and threw the bloody organs as far as she could then willed herself out of the dream.


	31. In and Out

Hermione did not believe in karma but when she woke in agony she was tempted to reconsider. It felt like her lower body was being twisted in a vice; a dread tearing stabbing pain she could not escape. She screamed.

“Put her out! Merlin’s sake, put her out!” A male voice shouted. Someone squeezed her hand reassuringly. Hermione could not breathe to scream again as a contraction cramped through her. Her vision tunnelled with shock. She saw a person with a wand approach her and she lashed out catching them on the chin with a clenched fist.

“Leave me alone!” Hermione croaked. She pitched forward, grabbing her knees not sure whether she should push or clamp her legs shut. The bed was soaking wet. Her water had broken. How long had she been asleep? Was it too late? Was it too soon?

“It’s alright, darling.” Louise said, settling in behind her so she could support her. She rubbed her daughter’s back and glared at the Healers. Martin and she had pushed for Hermione to be moved to a proper hospital but no one had listened to them. They did not even have an epidural! “Short breaths, Hermione. Thirty-four weeks. It’s alright.”

“Mum!” Hermione shrieked then the Mediwitch she had punched got off the floor and cast a Numbing Charm so she could think again. The fierce cramping faded to an ache; like in the dream. How long had she been in labour? Where were the god damned forceps? Couldn't someone Accio baby? Who was holding her hand?

“You’re fully dilated, whatever that means.” Draco remarked, his fingers white in hers. Hermione eased her grip and caught her breath.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She asked, regretting the obscenity but the occasion called for it.

“I’ve asked myself the same question.” He admitted. “Several times.” Draco gave her a sip of water to wet her mouth. Hermione licked her lips and gritted her teeth as another contraction started. She felt something move. She was having a baby!

The first, a boy, slid into the world as the sun set. He was wrinkly and blessedly pink and cried loudly at being evicted from his warm if crowded home. Blood as scarlet as sin followed him. A Mediwitch quickly cast a charm. The flow slowed but did not abate. Hermione grabbed her mother’s shoulder as Louise coached her. She had done Lamaze classes with her younger sister and had brushed up again for her daughter.

Draco had gone pale. He did not move however. Martin Granger made himself useful mopping Hermione’s face or feeding her ice or fetching tea. He and Draco shared a look as Hermione birthed a second child. There was a great deal of blood. It had saturated the bed. Martin spared a glance for his granddaughter before cheering his little girl on. But there were drops of red on the floor now.

The Mediwitches fed Hermione potion after potion yet she paled until there were blue shadows under her eyes. Her pulse became thready under his fingers and Draco yelled at the Healers to do something.

Everything was white for Hermione. She laughed softly, aware enough to know she was disorientated. So funny that she was dying in childbirth. She said the wizarding world was stuck in the Middle Ages. Was she dying? She was floating. It did not feel too bad. Even the contractions now did not bother her. Push, push, push...

Someone was screaming. Was it her? She did not think it was her. So much noise. Mum looks worried, Hermione thought as she felt something leave her. That was three, wasn't it? She’d lost count. There was an odd taste in her mouth and she choked. Hermione swallowed. Agrimony? Yarrow? The bitter taste made her grimace.

Then she was drifting away again. Hermione saw herself lying on the bloody bed in the centre of frenetic activity. Healers used spell after spell, casting so quickly there was almost a scent of magic in the room. She watched abstractedly; divorced from the frantic scene around her. There was nothing she could do and she did not like that.

She had tortured Fenrir. Hermione looked at that thought and did not like it either. She had wanted to hurt him. To give back all the hurt he had given her. Would he have an epiphany? Probably not. She had likely just made the situation worse. But she was angry. And she was allowed to be angry. The scorned woman. 

Kicking and screaming and covered in blood was how she had entered the world. It would be poetic to leave that way. A grand tragedy, complete with mourning parents and her enemy at her side. Draco had not said why he was there. He certainly was not enjoying it. He looked as wan as she did. Where was Harry? At least Ron wasn't there.

Hermione drifted over to the babies squalling in cots at the side of the room. They did not look cute. Poor little things did not deserve the hard road they had been given. She did not love them, not yet, but she could care. And what she had done to their father had evened the score. 

She was delirious, Hermione realised. Exsanguination would do that. Wafting back to her body, she looked down at herself. She was not going to go quietly. She was not going to be beaten. Or give up. Or leave undone everything she wanted to change. Or leave the ones she loved to cope without her. Hermione stepped back into her body.

There was greyness and a dull awareness of someone speaking. Hermione concentrated on the sound. A man’s voice reading the paper, she gradually deciphered. Her dad had read to her when she was sick, making the flu and tonsils almost bearable. The lavender smell was gone replaced by vanilla and the soothing undertone of something floral. Gardenias? She was thinking of white flowers but that could be the influence of vanilla.

Not the barn, the distillery, her home, the Burrow, her parent’s house, Hogwarts, St Mungo’s or a muggle hospital. Hermione mentally reviewed all the places she had woken unexpectedly. She settled on Malfoy Manor and opened her eyes. Guess confirmed, for there was Draco looking very much Lord of all he surveyed reading the Prophet.

“Still pleased with their reporting?” Hermione asked. There was a strange taste in her mouth, compounded of potions and not brushing her teeth. She felt not too bad. A little tired and looking at her hands, she did not wonder why. Her nails were faintly purple. Investigating herself she noted the pallor of her skin as well as her own pyjamas. They fit again more or less, saving her the bother of having to go shopping.

“The editorials are still drivel.” Draco folded the paper and shifted to her bedside, bringing with him a carafe of pumpkin juice. He gave her a glass. “I put in a birth notice. Very austere and formal, as expected of a Malfoy. After the debacle at St Mungo’s I spoke with Madam Pomfrey.” He frowned. “She had been so coy in her communiqués that the Healers thought your infants were at risk of lycanthropy due to a curse not by parentage.”

“The old wizarding reticence.” Hermione drank the juice and arranged her pillows. There were about dozen all as fluffy as clouds. “The letter I gave them was full of medical details of trauma and adverse reactions. I had assumed they would put two and two together.”

“Unfortunately the two they put together were us. That’s why I was there. While you were Dreamwalking, your lawyer finalised your divorce.” Draco gave her a smile of congratulations. Personally, he would have handled the matter by making Hermione a widow. “As we have taken pains to let everyone assume I knocked you up, I was dragooned in to attend the birth.”

“It usually is not that dramatic. Ginny had James in four hours and was back home the next day.” Hermione had not missed his slight shudder. She put a hand on Draco’s arm. What should she say? Sorry you had to see me bleed?

“You lost nine litres of blood.” Draco informed her tersely.

“I don't have nine litres of blood.” Hermione protested. An adult human had approximately five litres in their circulatory system. The loss of more than one litre caused symptoms and more than two litres was a life-threatening injury. There were charms to stop bleeding but restoring blood by direct magic took skill. She tried to calculate how many Haemal potions would be necessary to remedy that sort of prolonged bleeding. A lot. “Bloody Hell.”

“As you say.” Draco responded dryly. He looked her over. She had been unconscious for only a night then asleep for most of the day. During her extended dreaming, her body had leisure to concentrate on the growing babies so the complications of pregnancy had eased. The Healers, after they finished commending themselves, had reassured him and the Grangers and the countless other hangers-on that she would recover. 

Potter had been all for moving her to Grimmauld Place. Her parents had wanted Hermione shifted to a Muggle hospital. Longbottom, sundry Weasleys plus various Hogwarts and Ministry staff had also ventured opinions. Draco had won by fighting dirty. He had roped in Florentyna Meach to use his legal position as putative father of Hermione’s children then had got the Grangers on side by asking them to recommend a physician to supervise their daughter’s care. Daring Potter to refute paternity in front of Hermione’s friends and family had got the Golden Boy to back down.

Draco explained everything in a businesslike manner, guessing Hermione would want to be reassured rather than coddled. For her part, Hermione ticked off a mental list as he gave her information in between Healer prescribed potions, a trip to the bathroom and a light meal.

Her superstition had proven correct. All three babies had been born on Halloween though the second boy had only managed to squeeze in by forty minutes. Courtesy of their innate healing ability, they were in better shape than she was despite being six weeks premature. Their arrival had been fortunately timed during the dark of the moon when they would least show their lycanthropic heritage. So the secret was safe for the time being.

“I want to feed them.” Hermione insisted and insisted again when Draco said his house elves were attending the triplets closely. He wisely gave in. The process required some practise but eventually she found a position that suited; two of the babies resting on pillows suckling and the third with a bottle until the first needed burping then swapping places.

The feeling of over-fullness in her breasts eased. Hermione could not say she felt an instant connection with her children. That was for soap operas. But she did count their fingers and toes, marvelling at their minute perfection. Her children. Naming them would be a good idea, she thought with a wry laugh.

Draco held number three quite competently. He would never confess it but he had got a quick course on how to manage an infant from the house elves. They were old hands though he had been the last child they had needed to mind. He was fastidious enough to hand the baby over to an elf when it started to fuss.

“I won't impose for long. I’ll stay another night if you do not mind then shift to Grimmauld place.” Hermione remarked, her attention on the house elves returning the babies to their nursery. She would not go Dreamwalking again at least not until she some solid qualifications. A month adrift in her head with little perception beyond some time passing was not worth the risk. In tandem with Esme to locate the damn werewolf might be safe enough. But only under supervision.

“You are not imposing.” Draco observed from the vicinity of her lap. She absently ran her fingers through his gossamer fine hair. Her gaze drifted to the window and the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight. Hermione was thinking she should let everyone know she was alright when she felt lips brush her skin. 

She glanced down as Draco shifted forward a little and caught one of her nipples gently between his teeth. His tongue flicked over the terribly sensitised bud. Hermione shivered. He sucked lightly wondering if he would get a taste of her. He had not had his fill of the witch yet.

“I’m still sore.” Hermione commented. It was odd but she did not object to his attentions. He was being conscientiously gentle but Draco was not going to get any more from her than petting. Magical healing had mended everything however her body remembered its exertions.

“The Healers said, and I quote, to wait at least a week before wooing you.” Draco spoke in between toying with her stiffening flesh. He smoothed his fingertips over her breasts. Her skin was wondrously soft like rose petals. Kneading her lightly, he coaxed a thin dribble of milk across his tongue. He leant back and smiled at her satisfied. “You are sweeter than you look.”

“Why do not you do something constructive and bring my parents here?” Hermione asked mildly, too drained to blush. She seemed to strike the right balance between indulgence and request because he slid off the bed and Disapparated with no more than a smirk.

Hermione covered herself up then sagged back onto the pillows. She had a lot of things to do, not least descend upon the Aurors and curse them to Gehenna. Draco had been reticent to tell her but had finally divulged the Department for Magical Law Enforcement had missed Fenrir Greyback. They had tracked him to his lair in the wilds of Argyll only to be foiled by the Royal Navy of all people. 

A local who worked on the nearby Coulport submarine base had reported suspicious activity and the base commander, leery of recent anti-nuclear protests, had set out a patrol to recce. The search groups had found each other before either located the lycanthrope. The end result had been the Aurors arrested for trespass and by the time they had charmed their way out of trouble, Greyback was gone.

Hermione decided to give herself the same week off the Healers had instructed for Draco. She would let herself recover, catch up on everything she had missed then go back to work. And nab the werewolf. She was not going to let anyone else stuff up again. The MIS had enough surveillance they could blanket a county, if she called in all the teams. It would be the coup they needed to rid themselves of Basingly’s perfidy. She would not have the Ministry looking sidelong at her department.

Draco would be more than happy to have her in bed in his house, she was certain. It suited the Plan and he had designs on her person. Hermione was no fool. She trusted him enough to stay under his roof but she wanted the whip hand. She would not like to be dependent on him. Old pure-blood family values looked a lot like chattel servitude to a Muggle-born.

Not just for the women, fortunately. A husband lower down the blood hierarchy than his wife could be expected to be an adjunct for all his name was being perpetuated. Names, that prompted her to the task of naming her children. She had not given it much thought because frankly she had not thought she would need to do so. But now she had to so she did.

Her family had no particular traditions. Her parents’ siblings had used her grandparents’ names for their children, freeing her mum and dad to inflict Hermione on her. In wizarding circles, the purer the blood the more esoteric the name. She could call the triplets Euripedes, Ninhursag and Metzli with scarcely a raised eyebrow from her peers. If Harry could burden his little one with Albus Severus then the field was wide open for her.

One thing for certain, she would absolutely not give any name with any connection to anything canine. Remus’s parents had been courting fate with his name. Hermione wanted something ordinary and got out her laptop to look up meanings.

She considered William but dismissed it because of Bill Weasley. Catherine was nice but it meant pure, with which she did not want to laden her daughter. Hermione’s research strayed to scholars and scientists prompting her to consider namesakes. She wanted her children to remember their Muggle heritage. What better way than to name them after pioneers in non-magical fields?

Draco returned then excused himself to allow the Grangers their togetherness. Her parents were cautious until she assured she was coping mentally and almost recovered physically. Louise took that as permission to visit the babies. A late start and a desire to give their child everything they could had limited the Grangers to one. Three grandchildren while they were young enough to enjoy them was a blessing.

“Here you go.” Martin sat beside her, handing over the bits and pieces they had brought from her house. “They’re still fussing about over wards and such.” He grumbled, patting her hand. Now the worst was over and they could breathe again he had time to protest. “I know you’re not thinking about it now but if there is ever a next time, please, please make it a hospital. A midwifery clinic would do just as well.” 

“I promise, Dad.” Hermione agreed. He would not have said anything if he had not been very concerned. 

“You should have seen their faces when I asked about a transfusion. Bag blood! That’s what they called it.” Martin’s fingers tightened around hers. “We were so worried.”

Hermione did her best to reassure him, giving the technical details of what had happened to the best of her ability and Draco’s account. The Healers would not have told Muggles anything, Bachelor degrees or not. In the end, Martin still shook his head. Nothing would change his mind about the arrogance of magic-users.

They went together to the nursery where Louise was watching the house elves. The Grangers had much less difficulty with magical creatures, having met Dobby several times. Louise’s grandmother came from Cornwall and had told her stories about the knockers in the mines. Besides, for a single mother with triplets any sort of help for was welcome. Hermione introduced her children to their grandparents.

“Alexander Fleming Granger.” She picked up her eldest son who had wisps of ash brown hair that showed as wavy as his mother’s. Martin took his grandson, finding his cradling instincts still sound. “Rosalind Franklin Granger.” The little girl was awake and staring with wide cobalt eyes. Hermione gave her to Louise. Lastly she picked up her youngest, who was nearly bald but had comical downy eyebrows. “Jonas Salk Granger.”


	32. the Calm

Hermione had her week off and thanked the Fates every day that she was a witch. How women managed newborns without magic she did not know. The triplets made a fiercesome amount of laundry. One parent would need as many arms as Devi to manage. On Day Four of her rest, after she had sent out every Malfoy owl with correspondence, Hermione geared up to go into London.

This caused some conflict as Draco was informed he was not required. Hermione was informed she was mistaken. The dispute was resolved with a compromise. She would pick and pay for what she liked in Muggle London. He would do the same in Diagon Alley. Neither would protest beyond a raised eyebrow the other’s purchases. The system worked though seeing Draco swank around grinning when wizards she hardly knew congratulated them made Hermione want to roll her eyes.

True to herself, Hermione went back to work at the end of the week. She fed the babies and not without a pang flooed to Carlisle. Constantin Vlahoc, the Acting Acting Lead Researcher, greeted her at the door and kissed her hand. Everything had been filed then refiled after the Aurors had finished fossicking. They had sealed Basingly’s office during the investigation and had only allowed access again yesterday.

The field teams were all checked in and the researchers had been reading journals for the past fortnight. Hermione called a really big meeting. Except for confirmed sightings, all MIS field personnel were relocating to Scotland for Project Hound. Aerial sweeps in a grid pattern so they could maintain integrity for night flying. It was time to test Scotia team’s tandem technique; one flying, one wand ready. There would be a refresher seminar on GPS and location charms.

Hermione emphasised there would be no pursuit closer than rifle range and any contact even a suspicious noise would be called in immediately. This was a high risk capture. Anyone who wished to refuse to go into the field would be temporarily reassigned to coordination without prejudice.

With the roster sorted, Hermione called all the qualified shooters into her office for a briefing on the darts Neville had made for the MIS. They were toxic and would not be used on anything other than Fenrir Greyback. Any doubt, no shot. The aconite tincture was painful and debilitating; if their target had not been so dangerous she would not have issued the compound.

The Department got to work. Hermione had assigned the shooters with the most war experience to the night shifts, herself included. Werewolves were largely nocturnal and as Greyback knew he was being hunted he would be particularly wary. She did not expect to find him quickly but they would only need to find him once.

The penultimate full moon of the year approached quickly. Hermione had the lunar phases noted closely. Her routine did not change. She got up early to nurse the babies, who were much healthier than fully human infants would be at their age. They were feeding about every two hours with mum providing the drinks four times a day. Madam Pomfrey had popped in to help a few days after the birth and again a few days before the full moon so she was as prepared as she could be.

Alec changed first, twitching and crying. His siblings were not far behind him. Hermione asked the house elves to put the triplets in the same cot for the three nights and she watched anxiously as the little ones trembled. She had seen Fenrir Greyback change and Remus as well. It had been quite different for Professor Lupin than the werewolf who had bitten him. For her children, it looked like they were having a seizure as they metamorphosed gradually into wolf cubs.

For no sensible reason, Hermione started to cry. Draco put his arms around her and helped her bottle feed the fuzzy bundles before taking her to bed. The next night she was more composed, taking notes so she could learn to read the changes. She petted them. It was much easier to tell them apart in cub form. Alexander was chocolate brown, Rosalind was bronze and Jonas was sandy furred. All had their eyes tight closed and cute stubby ears.

They changed back with the same amount of fuss before dropping into sleep. They did not seem distressed by the change and Hermione had hopes none of them would experience the transitions as trauma. She would like to have a cure before they were old enough to understand they were different but that might not happen. All she could do was ensure they were properly socialised. Definitely need to think about buying a house with a bigger back yard, the witch thought.

The third night of the full moon was the easiest. The babies barely noticed the change. She was almost certain Jonas slept through his metamorphosis. Once her youngest woke up, they all fed strongly. Teething was going to be a nightmare. Granny Granger’s method of a brandy soaked sock was not going to suit.

Feeling much more in command, Hermione spent the night in Draco’s bed before returning to her own suite to get ready for work. She could handle this, she told herself with confidence. It would not be easy but it was doable. Once Greyback was in custody and she was back in her own home she would need to hire help. That would be a problem but maybe Dobby would like some work. He was trustworthy. For the rest of the moon, an ordinary mother’s helper would do fine. Her positive attitude lasted the whole day right up to her night shift.


	33. the Storm

Flying on a broomstick in icy near-winter wind over Kilmartin gave a severe battering to her joie de vivre. Hermione held onto Delhousey as he did a tight spin over the standing stones and nearly left her dinner behind.

“Overfly Ormaig again. I've got trace.” She shouted to be heard over the wind. Delhousey nodded but did not shout back; Hermione would not have heard him as his face was swathed in a heavy Ramsay tartan scarf. He turned the broom, keeping as low to the ground as safety allowed. Hermione’s boots brushed the tree tops as she swept her wand back and forth. Her other hand held tight onto the grip mounted behind the bicycle seat fastened to the haft of the broom.

The tandem arrangements could have been done with sticking charms but Scotia team preferred the mechanical way. There were a great many stray magical eddies in the Highlands that made using magical devices tricky. But it was probably just bad luck that Hermione tapped Delhousey on the back and pointed with her wand as a sudden gust of wind knocked the unwieldy besom.

Delhousey twisted sharply to keep them aloft. Hermione overbalanced and slid from her perch, missing the bristles and crashing down through the bare branches. She was quick enough with a cushioning charm and landed safely if inelegantly on her backside. Hermione signalled to Delhousey to stay aloft. It was too blustery to risk climbing. She would walk out of the woods to rejoin him or find a suitable clearing.

Hermione swept her wand above her head. The detection charm told her there was a lycanthrope in midrange. She shrugged off her rifle, loaded it and slung it across her front where it would be more accessible. Wand ready, she headed briskly back to the ruins. Eventually the trees thwarted her view of Delhousey and she was particularly wary after that. When she heard a twig snap, the witch put her back to a trunk and scanned again.

Her wand pulsed three times in her hand. The trace was very close. The MIS was developing a heads-up targeting display for increased efficiency but it was not ready for field testing yet. So the information the detecting charm gave her was only near and to her right but she could not see anything yet. 

Then there was a noise to make the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Hermione recognised the throaty growl instantly and tapped the send button on her mobile phone. It was strapped to the underside of her right wrist because of the impossibility of fishing something out of your pocket when flying at 160 kph. She palmed an aconite dart carefully as she waited, heart thudding.

“I can see you, bitch!” The hateful, menacing snarl cut through the clamour of the wind in the trees. Hermione did not move. She was not going to run though the wood like a frightened doe even if she could have made her suddenly leaden legs move. “I can see your flat, barren belly!”

“Two sons and a daughter!” Hermione shouted back, knowing if Fenrir thought she had aborted his litter she was as good as eviscerated. “All healthy and all mine!”

That flushed him out. He charged towards her fast as fury. Hermione got off a spell but not at him. Bright orange dots like tiny suns sped up through the forest canopy. Orange penetrated haze better than red and three dots meant grave danger. Fenrir hit her hard, shoving her against the tree. He was so angry he barely noticed the prick of the dart but he howled as the aconite flooded into his bloodstream.

Hermione kneed him and scrambled away. She hit him with a Stunning curse but it did not drop him. Her borrowed wand was not as attuned to her. In hybrid form he was incredibly tough. The field teams had to hurry!

“Tell me their names.” Fenrir growled, stalking towards her as clumsy as a drunk. Aconite was only a secondary paralytic. It functioned first and best on the heart causing tachycardia and therefore symptoms of asphyxia. Hermione shot him again as she backed away, her hands moving instinctively to reload.

He staggered, tried to leap at her but fell to the ground. He writhed and ended up on his back fighting for air. His body contorted, she could hear his bones grating, as he returned to human seeming.

“Alexander, Rosalind and Jonas.” Hermione said quietly from about five metres away. She was not going to go any closer until he had stopped moving. She was not going to chance anything. He could not have been more dangerous if he had been rabid. “I named them after Muggle scientists.”

“Weak names.” He huffed, his skin paling to blue-white. His hands clawed the ground as he tried to push himself upright. Inside his chest his heart skipped and shuddered like a scared child.

She should kill him. She could. No one would question her. The temptation was so alluring Hermione could almost hear the devil on her shoulder whispering to her. She bit her lip to stop herself. Not in cold blood. That was the difference between here and the dreaming world. Asleep, she could think what she liked but in the flesh there were consequences. There would be no airing dark urges from her subconscious.

“They changed with the full moon.” She wanted to distract him, to keep him talking rather than trying to attack. He would be sensate until the end, a cruelty of the tincture Neville had not been able to overcome. “It was no trouble for them.” Hermione licked dry lips. Her mouth felt arid. Adrenalin thrummed in her veins. Fenrir let out a wheezing gasp then another. She stared at him, astonished he was laughing.

“My litter.” He panted, baring his teeth in an exultant grin. Hermione watched as his breathing slowed and his eyes rolled back. Perhaps he was unconscious. Perhaps he was dying. She stood where she was, rifle in hand and waited until he was still. Then Hermione approached to manacle him and shift him onto his side into the recovery position. She let her breath out in a long, shaky sigh. 

It was over.

**Author's Note:**

> Australian English language usage and spelling used.
> 
> This is a re-working of a story I wrote almost ten years ago while on some impressive medication.


End file.
